


One More River to Cross

by Asphodelethe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Artist Dean Winchester, Ghost Castiel, M/M, Other, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:29:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asphodelethe/pseuds/Asphodelethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a young freelance painter out on his own for the very first time. He has just moved into a beautiful new house in a gorgeous new town that he intends to use as inspiration in his work. However, when he meets a young man in a very peculiar way, his simple move suddenly becomes a whole lot stranger than he was betting on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, yo, guess who's starting a new thing? Me?? This is gonna be based on an idea I had when I was, oh idk, twelve? Only Supernatural. Because why the heck not.
> 
> D'you reckon I should keep goin' with this?
> 
> Edit: For reference, there wont be any ~~sexy times~~ because I'm not comfortable writing that and also Cas is a ghost, c'mon. Just FYI
> 
> Second Edit: ALSO FYI, I like writing gore n' junk, so I'm probably gonna go to town later on. Seeing as this is racing towards being finished now there's gonna be a pretty nasty reveal that I've been itching to write since December. Can't wait! (Can't believe people are still reading this piece of crap too but I'll take it)
> 
> THIRD EDIT: Guess who hasn't written anything for agesssss, this guy. The next chapter is currently in three fragmented pieces that I'm gonna try to turn into something coherent soon, so bear with. I just wanna get this thing finished now. It was only ever an exercise to see if I could finish something (which is why it's so bad and inconsistent and desperately needs editing, but I don't wanna) When this is over tho I'm going to move onto the fic I actually wanna write so watch this spot

It was a beautiful day. Late August sunlight fell dappled through gently swaying leaves, mottling the ground below in gentle gold and reflecting off of puddles of silvery water from last night’s downpour. Dean Winchester sloshed through one such puddle and sent the shimmering light dancing. Not that he noticed. His eyes were actually completely blocked by a large cardboard box he held with both arms; the contents of which threatened to fall crashing to the ground at any moment through the soaked bottom. He had told the moving guys the truck was wet and letting in more water all the time.

He had _told_ them.

But they hadn’t listened, merely waved him off with a “yeah, yeah” and an “It’ll be fine” and put a bit of plastic down to ease his fears. And now here he was with a sodden box and countless more of his personal belongings that were probably just as water-damaged. To their credit, the two guys did look a little sheepish and made certain to carry his things quickly and carefully. Probably to get away from him as soon as possible, but that didn’t bother him. He didn’t mind solitude. Welcomed it, even. That was part of the reason he’d moved out here after all.

He dropped the box he was carrying just inside the door and went back to the truck outside. He grabbed another, smaller box and began back up the front path, only to stop and notice the place properly for the first time that day. It was a beautiful building; soft yellow stone, creeping ivy and overhanging branches, large windows that shone in the autumn light. There was even a small conservatory out back that he couldn’t wait to curl up in in the summer and bask in the light. He had plans for this house, and he sure as hell was gonna get his money’s worth out of it.

After he deposited his box and returned for more he noticed that there were only two small ones left, besides some furniture the two guys were busy lifting. One he knew for a fact contained personal photos of his family, trinkets, keepsakes, and was immeasurably glad he’d wrapped in plastic before he’d loaded it into the truck. The other he thought might have contained cutlery or something. He barely remembered packing it up back in Lawrence to be perfectly honest. After all, most of the process had been intermittently interrupted by his brother begging him not to go and his mother fussing over whether or not he’d be okay on his own. He had to remind them both that, firstly, Sam was at College and barely saw him anymore anyway, and secondly, he was twenty six, and more than ready to get out there on his own. Nevertheless his mother had gotten teary eyed and pressed an envelope of money into his hand meant to help him out. He’d tried to refuse saying that he wasn’t hard up for money, but she’d insisted and reminded him they’d all be down to visit in a few weeks. He’d rolled his eyes at that but secretly he’d been pleased. His father helped him pack up the truck, handed him the keys to his old Impala and had told him to keep it in perfect condition. Dean had readily agreed, blindsided by the gift, and was then even more blindsided by the hug his father pulled him into.

He smiled at the memory, grabbed both boxes - one balanced on the other - and made short work of moving them into his new home. The moving guys left pretty quickly and at last he was alone. In his new place. His house. His.

He crashed out on the sofa for a few minutes, exhausted from the move. He was sure that sooner or later the phone would ring and Mary would be on the other end, “checking in”, and whilst he didn’t mind her concern for him he’d rather rest a while first. It’d been a long drive. He surveyed his new front room with a pleased grin on his face. It was great. When he got it all cleaned up and tidy and dressed in his stuff it’d look even better. He liked the raw stone and light wood look. Combined with the sunlight streaming in it made the whole room glow. He snapped out of staring at drifting dust motes and decided to take a look around the place. He hadn’t been here in a few weeks, not since the viewing, and without the previous inhabitants’ furniture it looked a little different. Eventually he wound up in the conservatory, brilliant in its sunlight, and he stared out over the slightly overgrown garden. He didn’t notice that large, slightly giddy grin spread back across his face, but he was too busy envisioning things as they would be. This conservatory, he had decided weeks ago, would hold his easel and paints. It was the perfect place for him to work and he couldn’t wait to capture the fading August colours in one of his canvases.

Just as he was planning where to set it all up, his mobile started to ring. Checking the caller ID he wasn’t at all surprised to discover that it was his mother calling. He answered and started wandering back through the house as they talked. She asked how the move had been, was the house alright, had he eaten yet. He replied to everything in the affirmative, even as his stomach growled in disagreement. He shushed it and promised himself he’d get take-out or something. No sense in grocery shopping just yet, he reasoned, especially with the light fading. He snapped back to the conversation just as his mom was telling him they were coming down two weeks from Friday – even Sam – and they couldn’t wait to see his new place. He promised he’d have cleaned up by then and even said he’d cook for them. That seemed to please Mary.

“You always were a good cook,” she said fondly, and he knew she was remembering when they used to bake together.

“I’ll make your favourite, Mom,” he said, before promising to look after himself, and yes, he’d call if he needed to.

He hung up and smiled down at the phone before tucking it back into his jeans and appraising the mess in his front room. For now, he decided, he was just going to make the bedroom up. He grabbed the boxes labelled “bedroom” in his messy print and headed upstairs.

The house had two bedrooms, though the spare was little more than a closet with a bed. Dean reasoned that his brother wouldn’t mind sleeping there if he came to visit, though judging by the size of him at this point, he wasn’t sure Sam would actually fit in the tiny room. He’d probably let Sam take his bed and end up in there himself; not that he’d care. As long as his brother was comfortable, Dean would be happy sleeping on the floor if he had to. As for the Master bedroom, Dean had plans to redecorate the old floral wallpaper and transform it into something neutral, but with warm highlights. He wanted to make it comfortable. He may act brash and defensive on occasion back in Kansas – no doubt his ex-military father’s influence - but here, in his own home, he could do as he liked. And he was going to make it completely his. Until he could properly get to decorating, Dean made do with making up the bed and putting some of his clothes in the dresser. He was glad he’d brought some of his own furniture. Sleeping on just a mattress would have lost any novelty it may have held pretty damn quick.

With the bed made and some of his clothes stored away he decided he’d make a start on his glass studio. Moving the easel in was simple enough, and he’d brought enough canvases and paints to last him a while, but when he went to retrieve the brushes he’d boxed away earlier he discovered that they’d been immersed in water for several hours. The bristles were absolutely ruined. Touching the canvases he realised they were just as full of moisture and he didn’t doubt that somehow his paints were probably full of rainwater too. Perfect. And the light in here was just too good to waste.

Dean grabbed his jacket, hurried outside and locked the place up. The Impala was just where he left it in the driveway and by now the truck was long gone. Thank God. They’d blocked him in when they pulled up and he was glad he didn’t have to deal with that bullshit now. Reversing out of the driveway he made a mental note of things he could pick up. He knew exactly where the art shop was; he’d made sure to find that out before he moved in. Confident he knew where he was going, he made a beeline, parked across the street and hurried across the road without paying much attention to his surroundings. He knew they place would probably shut soon and he needed to replenish some of his supplies. Painting calmed him and after that long journey, he at least wanted to start something.

As he reached the sidewalk, he noticed some guy further down the street talking loudly to some passer-by. Or, rather, talking at. The woman didn’t seem to pay him much mind and judging by the wild arm movements and volume of his pleas for attention, Dean didn’t blame her. Maybe the guy was homeless, he thought, and definitely a few tools short. He felt bad for the guy but knew he had to get in the art store soon. It was a small, locally run place and he was sure he had maybe ten minutes before they closed.

Pushing the gesticulating guy out of his mind he darted inside the shop and thought no more about him.

Inside, the most wonderful array of supplies left him motionless for a moment or two as he tried to order his thoughts and figure out what he needed. He raised a friendly hand to the guy behind the counter and hurried down towards the painting stuff. Fortunately, he’d been doing this a while and knew what to look for.

Before long he had several good canvases under his arm, a few new tubes of paint to try out and some brushes to tide him over until he could do a real shop. He paid for his things, made small talk with the owner – Jim, he learned, - and left just before Jim locked up behind him. Out on the street again he took a moment to juggle his purchases until he had a good hold on them. A gentle breeze picked up, rustling leaves and cooling his face.

The whole world seemed serene for just a moment, and then his eyes fell on the guy from earlier. The homeless one. The homeless one who was begging people on the other side of the street to listen to him, to pay attention, to see him, please, just to see him.

Dean watched in slow motion as the guy backed away from two pedestrians who never broke stride, never broke eye contact. They didn’t seem to even notice that he existed. The guy stumbled backwards, visibly distressed, and twirled in the middle of the road until he was staring straight at Dean. And Dean stared back.

For a moment the guy just stood there, slack-jawed, like he was in disbelief that Dean even saw him. Then he took a small step forward.

Straight into the path of a car.

It happened in slow motion. One minute there was no car and the guy was alone in the street. The next, this massive red 4X4 had appeared out of nowhere and without even slowing had driven straight through the guy.

Literally.

When it had passed, the guy was still standing there as if nothing had happened. If there had been disbelief on his face before, now it was downright shock. He looked down at himself, touched his chest, looked after the car that hadn’t even slowed for him, and back to Dean.

Dean had dropped everything he had been holding except for a single paintbrush. He stared at the man, and the man stared at him. Eventually, after a lengthy pause of mutual shock, the guy who had had a car drive straight through him cleared his throat and in a gravelly, but timid voice whispered,

“I think I’m dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. Took a while, but here's some more?? I guess? A drunk guy at my Christmas office party kinda convinced me to keep writing so here we go. Maybe there'll even be more soon.

That was it. That was what sent him over the edge. He’d been coping until then. He’d been gobsmacked, sure, and alarmed most definitely, but he had been _coping_. He could try to convince himself that what he had seen, he  **hadn’t**. He could try to convince himself that the guy had actually been stood behind the car, that the whole thing had been an optical illusion. Hell, he supposed the intangible spectre of a man could have just been the result of tiredness from the long drive and the move.  But those four little words tipped the scale between right and wrong. In a moment everything he knew of the world, everything he believed in was challenged and he found himself doubting his own mind. Maybe, he found himself thinking, the whole thing had been in his head. Stress, maybe.

  In any case, he found himself taking small steps backwards, hands raised as if warding off an attack, and muttering wide-eyed to the man still staring at him.

   “Oh no. No no no no. No way, no thank you.”

   Not looking where he was going, Dean tripped unceremoniously over his spilled art supplies. The sudden change in altitude severed the mutually horrified eye-contact the two men seemed unable to break, and Dean landed heavily on his ass. He turned and kneeling began gathering up everything he’d dropped. As he worked those words circled round and round in his mind until, eventually, he managed to blank them out. He instead pictured his family waving him goodbye as he pulled out of Lawrence to begin the next phase of his life. Sammy’s wide grin, his mother’s smile betrayed by the tears glistening in her eyes, and his father’s usually gruff façade slipped to reveal an unspoken pride.

   Oh God, what if he’d gone crazy. He’d been away from home for less than twenty four hours and already his mind was cracking. But he didn’t feel crazy. He felt lucid at least, but as his mind wandered back to seeing the man for the first time he remembered how nobody else seemed to have seen him. Nobody acknowledged him in any way, even when he was screaming right in their faces. Maybe that was it then. Maybe it _was_ all in his head. Fantastic. Imagine what his family would say.

   “Shit.” Dean closed his eyes tight, rubbed his hands into them until he saw constellations and exhaled a long shaky breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He pinched himself – hard – just to make sure. It hurt. A lot. So he wasn’t dreaming then. The hallucination theory still stood, and so did the insanity, but he reckoned that maybe he shouldn’t commit himself just yet.

   He clambered back to his feet, art supplies in both arms, and stared firmly at the brick wall he found himself facing. Another deep breath – this one designed to steady him – and he turned sharply around.

  But the man was gone.

  He blinked. He hadn’t hear the man move away, or try to talk to him again or call out for help. How had the guy just… vanished?

  He took a hesitant step. Then another. Then he found himself flying across the road – swerving wide to avoid the spot the man was in just moments ago – and threw his things into his car.

   Seated behind the wheel of the vehicle he spent a good portion of his youth in, he began to feel his father’s no-nonsense attitude seep out of every inch of the machine. He managed a few more steadying breaths and he before he knew it he was laughing uncontrollably. At first it started small – a short and disbelieving exhalation rather than a laugh – but then as events replayed in vivid Technicolor in his head it again dawned on him just how ridiculous the entire situation was.

   A man nobody else could see or hear, except for him. A man who could have a car pass straight through him like he was made of nothing but smoke. A man who vanished into nothing in the ten seconds or so Dean wasn’t looking.

   The more he thought about it and the harder he laughed and the more he was made certain that the whole thing was just too ridiculous to be real.

   “Ghosts don’t exist,” he whispered to himself, clutching the steering wheel, tears of laughter mixed with tears of terror leaking from his hazel eyes. “Ghosts don’t exist,” he repeated, and then again, louder, as if to convince himself.

   He had actually managed to half-convince himself that it had all been a waking dream until he went to start the car, looked up, and saw that the man had reappeared.

   The man, the same fucking man, stood in front of the car, staring at him through the windshield. He sported the same horrified look on his face, the same wide blue eyes, the same open “O” shaped mouth. The same rumpled work shirt and store-bought black trousers adorned him and his tie he held clamped firmly in one hand, even as he reached out to Dean, mouthing something. The glass muffled his words but Dean knew the man had only one thing to say.

   “Help me.”

   Naturally, Dean slammed his feet into the pedals and screeched out into the road. He only looked back once, but there was nothing in the rear-view mirror. By the time the Impala pulled into the driveway of his new home the sun was all but set and Dean was thoroughly rattled.

   The events replayed in his head over and over. The words… Those two parting words were filled with such desperation, such confusion and desire to understand, that Dean finds himself half an hour later still behind the wheel of his car with moonlight as his only source of illumination.

  He eventually managed to pull himself back together and get himself and his supplies into his new home. The door he locked tightly behind him and the supplies he dropped without thinking right there in the hallway. He kicked his shoes off, shrugged off his jacket and walked upstairs without bothering to flick on the light switch. He collapsed on his bed and stayed there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck was happening to him.

  He was certain – absolutely certain – of what he’d seen. Or, what he thought he’d seen. But as he’d deliberated before, what if he was just tired, or hallucinating, or simply batshit fucking insane?

  He hoped it wasn’t the last one. He really truly hoped it wasn’t. He didn’t feel insane. Wasn’t there something about crazy people not knowing they were crazy though? But maybe if he was genuinely crazy he wouldn’t have questioned seeing a car drive _straight through a person_. In any case, the thought put his mind slightly to ease, even if he still wasn’t completely convinced of his sanity.

  His eyelids drooped once, twice. He battled it, mind still reeling, but more sluggishly now that he was home and in bed. With one last thought of the man’s piercing, pleading, Pacific-blue eyes, Dean fell into a deep, all-encompassing sleep. Fortunately for him, he didn’t dream; instead the blackness took him completely and without resistance. Dean didn’t wake even when new sunshine fell on him through the window he had forgotten to cover the night before. He slept on, safe and momentarily spared from the questions he had to ask himself and the confusion his short supply run had produced.

  He slept on, unaware that a set of blue eyes watched him from the corner of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

 Ringing. Incessant, agonising ringing reverberated around in his head, shattered the brief respite the void of sleep had offered and jerked Dean awake in a single jarring moment. His eyes snapped open and then shut just as quickly as early afternoon sunlight violently assaulted his retinas. The ringing hadn’t stopped but at least it was less confusing awake. This time he cracked one eye slightly open, took in his surroundings and blearily fumbled around for the source of the ringing. His hand was just closing in on his phone when it stopped suddenly. With a curse he managed to open his eyes all the way, sat up, and brought his phone close to his face.

   **Mom - Missed Call 13:11**

  “Oh,  _shit_.” He fumbled with the lockscreen, managed to get the damn thing open and scrolled through his contacts until he found his mother. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he called back, settling back against the headboard as he did.

  She picked up on the second ring.

  “Dean?” Her voice was calm, no detectable hint of worry or fear in its cadence, but Dean was used to his Mother speech and knew she was actually quite concerned.

  “Yeah, hi Mom. Sorry I missed that, I was, uh, asleep.”

  “Still?” She paused. “That’s not like you.”

  Dean was just about to explain everything when the events of the day before came crashing back; just as vivid, just as confusing, just as downright crazy. His breath caught in his throat and he balked. He couldn’t tell her. Of course he couldn’t tell her. What would he even tell her? How could he even begin to explain something he wasn’t even sure was real? He couldn’t. Better to let her believe everything was fine than allow her to worry about his sanity. He could do that himself.

  “ _Dean_?” Her voice swam back into focus and he realised he’d been quiet for slightly longer than he’d thought.

  “Yeah, Mom, sorry. Still here. I’m just tired from the move I guess. Must be why I slept in late.”

  “Oh, OK. Your father will be pleased to know you got there safely. And Sammy.  He’s been restless all morning waiting to hear from you. He…“

   She broke off. Her voice grew muffled and far away. Dean could hear another voice in the background chime in. This one was lower, younger and most definitely belonged to Sammy. Dean smiled to himself, imagining his kid brother pestering his mom to let him talk to Dean - no doubt eager to tell him everything that had happened in the day he hadn’t been there before rambling into another long, excitable oration about how great Stanford was, how it was such a good college, how he just _couldn’t wait_ to get there…

  And so on and so on.

  Normally he’d have rolled his eyes, supressed an exasperated sigh and humoured him. But with his little brother so far away for this first time in… well… **ever** , Dean found himself missing the kid’s geeky little speeches.

  “Hey, Mom?” He heard his mother hush Sam and return to the phone.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “How’s uh, how’s everyone doing?”

  “Dean, you’ve only been gone a day. Everyone is the same as ever. Sam finished packing this morning. Not that he’s leaving for another week yet.” Dean couldn’t help but laugh – that was his little brother all over. Personally he’d still been cramming things into boxes when the movers arrived.  He was brought out of his thoughts by his mother saying she had better go now.

  “Or else I’ll never hang up,” she added, chuckling, but Dean was sure there were tears mixed in with the laughter. Something in his heart clenched but he knew she’d be OK. She still had Sam, after all, even if just for another week. And John after that, if he could drag himself away from his cars.

  Dean said his goodbyes, and one to Sam when he hollered “Bye” in the background, and hung up. He stared at his phone for a moment, desperately homesick, and then flung it at the end of the bed.

  He’d only been gone for a day, he reminded himself. He could do this. Living alone couldn’t be _that_ hard. With that thought in mind he rolled out of bed and into the shower. All his troubling memories of the day before and yearnings for his family were momentarily washed away with hot steam and fucking _amazing_ water pressure.

  His day after that went surprisingly well. He made a start on some of his boxes and managed to get the kitchen stuff unpacked, moved, and put away fairly quickly, earbuds in and listening to some of his favourite music. He hadn’t brought much with him; just a few pots and pans, some cutlery, utensils, a couple towels, glasses, plates and cups for coffee. He made a mental note to get some more personal things and try to liven the place up. It sorta looked like a show kitchen at the moment, and he wasn’t thrilled about that. 

  He did manage to hang one of his paintings in there though – a landscape he was particularly proud of, depicting rolling hills and wild flowers in lush greens and yellows, gentle purples and soft reds. It made the place seem friendlier, he decided, and vowed to add more in the future.

  After the kitchen was more or less outfitted, he moved on to the front room. He had a comfortable loveseat and his old TV set, and alongside a few cushions, a hand-me-down coffee table, a flat-pack bookshelf with accompanying books and a rug that had lived in his old bedroom, the place didn’t look too bad. A bit sparse, and kind of student-y he supposed, but not bad.

   There was also another canvas to hang on the wall, but this one wasn’t one of his. This painting was a gift he’d received several years ago from a friend at school. She’d painted the entire Winchester family with great skill and care and presented him with it for his eighteenth birthday.   The painted faces were younger than the one’s he’d left behind, but the joy in their painted eyes was tangible, and he felt his spirits lift just knowing that in some small way they were smiling down at him from above the fireplace. Several times he caught himself glancing up at them as he unpacked further boxes, and each glance was accompanied with the feeling that he was being watched.

  He’d managed to get the majority of his things unpacked just as the light was beginning to fade. Glancing at the wall-clock he’d propped up on one of the bookshelves he was surprised to see that it was past six. More surprising, he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Fortunately, he’d brought some food with him – at the behest of his mother - so he dined quite comfortably on soup and bread. He didn’t bother wash up, rather dumping everything in the sink and consigning the job to future Dean, God bless him. He padded softly through the house, back towards the living room, when his eyes fell on a carrier bag, dropped by the front door.

  “Oh, yeah.” He dimly remembered letting the bag drop heavily to the floor the night before but hadn’t given it any thought since. He’d been too busy to paint or draw or even go near his little art studio, so the supplies had gone unnoticed. He supposed that ignoring what had happened out there in the street may have also contributed to his bag-blindness. Just slightly.

   OK, so majorly.

  He crossed the hallway, seized everything, and threw it unceremoniously onto the sofa. He was really trying hard not to think about the circumstanced of acquiring the supplies and figured that the sooner it no longer resembled the bag-of-stuff, the sooner he could forget the hallucination that went with it for good. He upturned it, allowing his purchases to spill out. That was better. Individually, they didn’t remind him of much more than the parts of the shop he’d found them in. He gathered everything up in two arms and made his way to his glass studio. It was completely black outside by now and he refused to look through the windows and into the darkness. He kept his eyes focused on his set-up and on filing everything away to where it should be.

  After several minutes of pure concentration everything was sorted neatly away. Brushes mingled with other brushes, canvases were stacked against other canvases, new tubes of paint sat with older tubes, curled and nearly empty. Dean perched himself on his stool and surveyed the little room. There wasn’t really anything else to do. Checking his watch, a large **19:10** flashed at him, and he sighed. He’d slept in for far longer than he would have normally so he wasn’t really all that tired. He didn’t have the internet set up yet so that limited what he could do, and he didn’t much feel like watching a movie.

    Shrugging, he picked up a sketch book and a couple of pencils, just for something to do with his hands. He flicked through past several doodles, the odd small sketch, one or two practice portraits and half a tree from their back yard back in Kansas. He touched up a few branches before flipping the page and staring at the blank paper.

  Nothing immediately came to mind. He idly touched pencil to paper and started sketching out a pair of eyes without paying much attention to what he was doing. They started out vague before growing into definite features with independent personality. Heavily lidded, intense, staring, they gazed unblinkingly up at him. He squinted at the drawing, tilted his head, added some more lines. He tapped his pencil against slightly parted lips and frowned.

    The eyes looked strangely familiar. He knew them, he was sure, but he didn’t know from where exactly. He figured that with the sheer number of eyes he’d studied over the years he must have subconsciously pulled a random pair from a forgotten corner of his mind. He added more detail, some light shading and deep creases that bisected invisible cheeks. Cheeks he somehow knew would be covered with stubble.

    Something stirred unpleasantly in his memory and all of a sudden he didn’t want to look at the drawing anymore. He had a nasty feeling where he might have seen those intense, pleading eyes before. He snapped the book shut, set it down on the bench and left it there in the dark. 

  He made his way silently up to his new room, not bothering to turn the lights on, and shucked off his t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He got into bed, pulled the quilt tight around him and closed his eyes. The tiredness he had thought he didn’t feel finally made itself known and consumed him completely. The last thing that crossed his mind before sleep took him was that pair of pencil eyes, inexplicably coloured blue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey another one. Probably the last one of 2014 unless I'm really feeling it before New Year's. I doubt I will, so I made this one a teensy bit longer. It ain't all that but have at nonetheless.

    It was like a waking nightmare, was all Castiel could think, over and over as he staggered down the main street in a town he didn’t recognise. He didn’t know what was happening. All he knew as that he was begging strangers to help him, or even just to hear him, and nobody was listening. For what felt like hours he pleaded, cried, screamed and wept in endless distress. He couldn’t understand why they were all ignoring him. All of them. It was the single most horrifying experience of his life.

   That thought stopped him short. His brow furrowed and as he began try to remember anything beyond his first name, he discovered with growing dismay that he had absolutely no memories prior to wandering the streets. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just white noise in his head, like static on an old television set. Try as he might he simply couldn’t summon any thought or memory older than asking the first person he stumbled into to help him.

  As the day wore on and more and more people acted as though he wasn’t there, he began to lose hope. He couldn’t fathom how so many people refused to even acknowledge him. After gesticulating wildly at a woman that didn’t even glance at him he looked down at himself, finally wondering whether it was maybe his appearance warding them off. He saw a crumpled blue tie against a white work shirt; black trousers creased down the front and shiny matching shoes scuffed on the right toe. Nothing out of the ordinary he thought, utterly bewildered. He fiddled with the tie, wrapped it around his hands tighter and tighter as he again surveyed the street for potential assistance. Two pedestrians talking caught his eye and he tried again.

  “Help me, please. I don’t know where I am. Please, I know you can hear me. _Please_.”

   They didn’t break stride, never even looked at him. Cas took several steps backwards, not even noticing he’d left the sidewalk, and twirled in the road, seeking out faces that never turned to him, eyes that not once flicked towards him, ears that never seemed to listen and mouths that never offered reassurance.

  He was brought up short by a man outside the art shop. The man was looking. He was **looking**.

  Cas felt his mouth drop open. He stared in silence, his mind wiped completely blank, his face settled to one of sheer disbelief. For a moment he doubted. Perhaps the man was looking at something else. But no, he couldn’t be. The guy was looking right into his eyes. And he even looked mildly confused.

  He took an involuntary step forwards, lips moving to form words he hoped would finally be listened to, and all of a sudden his world was distorted into one of shocking red and booming music, people sitting talking, and the man he had been looking at was momentarily distorted by glass when just as soon as it happened, it was over. He looked right. A car. A big red car, blasting music. He had been inside a car. He had… Oh fucking hell, what. What was _happening_?

  He touched his chest lightly. Stared after the car. Vague visions of a now dead actor in a film he’d seen once surfaced. Something about pottery? And seeing everything as he was passing through objects? That film was about a…. A… Oh. Oh fuck.

  Castiel looked back to the guy that had seen him. He was still seeing him, but now his face was one of shock and thinly veiled terror. Cas could sympathise. The guy had dropped most of what he held and didn’t seem to have noticed.

   He cleared his throat and in a voice just about as panicky as he felt said the words he didn’t want to believe.

  “I think I’m dead.”

  Admittedly it was a lot to throw at the guy, and Cas couldn’t blame him for falling backwards, swearing a lot to himself and on his knees, and facing the other way, silently gathered up his things. He allowed the stranger that time to process what was happening, as he himself took a moment to try to process what the words he had spoken truly meant. He decided to deal with that later. But as the guy turned back around he did something that knocked Cas for six. Despite looking straight at him the guy had stared unseeingly through him in a way reminiscent of countless others.

   Cas was dumbstruck. He couldn’t figure it out. Just moments before the guy had seen him just fine. What had changed?

   He moved gingerly forwards with his hands raised slightly and uneasily. As he neared the guy he reached out, waved a bit, even snapped his fingers up close to his face. No result. The hazel eyes, wide with apprehension, stared unseeing somewhere past him.

  Without warning the guy was sprinting full pelt to his car, flinging himself in, and slamming the door tightly shut. Cas followed, distraught but with no better plan. He figured if this guy could see him – even briefly – then that was better than haunting a street full of people he now realised hadn’t been ignoring him at all but were simply blind to him.

  He stood in front of the car and stared in. He tried fruitlessly to get the guy’s attention again but it was no use. The man’s shoulders were shaking. He was laughing? That seemed a bit strange. Cas could see him say something to himself and it seemed to cheer him up because it prompted the guy to look out of the windshield with an easier expression on his face. An expression that melted instantly.

  He could see him again.

  Cas tried, he really, really tried. He reached for the man with his left hand – his right clutching at his tie like some kind of safety blanket - and called for help with all his might.

  That was when the guy put his foot down and sped away; going as far as to pass briefly through him as he went. Castiel could do nothing but stare helplessly as he got briefly close enough to count freckles before the big black car was rumbling away down the road. His feet started moving. His eyes never left the steadily shrinking vehicle.

  “Wait…” he called. His voice was hoarse, gravely. He wasn’t sure if that was normal or not for him. “Please wait.” He reached out again as he broke into a full sprint. He moved faster than he thought he should be before remembering that, yes, he was probably still dead. That would be why he wasn’t out of breath then. Small benefits, he supposed, as he picked up the pace.

  He ran faster, but still the car was shrinking into the distance. A massive weight settled in his stomach as he realised he may never find the man who could see him again. All he wanted was to follow him. He needed his help, desperately. The thought consumed him, and all that desperate, _needing_ emotion swelled within him until it was all he was.

  He was desire.

  He was longing.

  He was in the backseat of the car.

  This fucking ghost bullshit was getting to be a bit much. But he wasn’t going to complain. He wasn’t even going to question what had just happened. Add it to the list, he figured, as he silently – invisibly - allowed himself to be chauffeured to wherever the guy was going. He did feel a bit bad, practically stalking the guy, but he was desperate and this man was his only hope of figuring out what the hell was going on.

  Though he’d figured out the dead bit by himself.

  He pushed that thought away. Later, he reasoned. Later would be the time to deal with that can of worms. Not now. Not sat in the backseat of a stranger’s car like a cheesy horror flick just waiting to happen.

  As much as he wanted to be seen he didn’t much mind being invisible for the time being. Scaring the guy into a car crash wasn’t going to help anyone; especially if the man died. Then there would be two ghosts. One was more than enough for him.

  The car pulled into the driveway of a really pretty little house not long after. Cas, biting his tongue and closing his eyes, manage to drift through the door and stand beside the car. He waited for his stalkee to emerge and, when he didn’t, peered through the glass. The guy seemed to be gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. Something told Cas that he wasn’t seeing much of anything right now, never mind the dead man stood in his driveway.

  He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t do much comforting of course, especially when he was the one who wanted desperately to be the one being comforted. He decided to poke around the garden a bit and even mused briefly about going in the house and having a look around, but it felt rude. Uninvited. Which he knew he most definitely was, but he wasn’t going to be completely immoral about things and essentially break in. Even dead he had his principles.

  He didn’t have too long to wait, as it turned out. He was just squinting through the glass of a nice little conservatory out back when he heard the groan and slam of the car’s door. Keys clinked together and the front door squeaked slightly as it opened. Cas made his way back to the front just as the door slammed shut. He was just about to follow when he paused, all of a sudden uncertain. He wasn’t sure if he should go in. It finally dawned on him as he stood there fiddling with his tie. He was haunting the guy, wasn’t he? Shit. What an obvious stereotype.

  Nonetheless, he needed him. He needed to find out what had happened to him. Now that he knew he was dead, he knew something had to have happened to make him that way, and maybe this guy had a laptop, had access to news and social media and whatever the hell Cas might be on. The alive Cas. Whoever the hell he was. He needed to know. He might have family. They might not know what had happened to him.

  That decided it. He walked through the door with new determination to get the guy to see him; hell, even to hear him would be an improvement at this point. 

  And so began his long week as unseen, uninvited houseguest number one.


	5. Chapter 5

   Despite getting off to a really, shall we say, _bumpy_ start, the last week for Dean had actually turned out to be pretty great. It had been quiet, relaxing and given him ample time to get the rest of his stuff moved in, minus any distressed and obnoxiously intangible distractions. There had been no more creepy hallucinations and discounting a small panic over some misplaced trinkets, no more major freak-outs either. All in all, Dean had come away from that little experience with a newfound respect for the dangers of sleep deprivation. He had been sleeping full nights accordingly.

  It was Sunday. The day was beautiful, his house felt like his home, finally, and for once Dean had nothing more important to do than what he loved best. So he painted. Perched on his stool, easel positioned just so and new canvas already covered in paint, he was happy. He worked in yellows, muted orange and other ochre tones reminiscent of every lazy golden afternoon he had ever experienced. The painting took shape slowly with many breaks in between where he rubbed the sweat from his face and mindlessly ran hands through his hair. Before long Dean was covered in paint he couldn’t see. Smudges of yellow hid under his jaw; blobs of orange smeared across his forehead and nose, obscuring his freckles and emphasised the green in his eyes. He even had flecks of the stuff in his already fair hair.

  Before him a landscape of golden hills and autumnal trees grew out of the dabs and strokes of paint. Up close it didn’t look much like anything, but standing several feet back…. It came to life. It made him feel warm inside, this painting. It evoked feelings of cosiness, of protection and safety, of walking a dog in late September or crunching through leaves in the run up to winter. It felt comfortable. But it also reminded him of the distance between him and his family. A distance he had chosen, yes, but a distance nonetheless. He missed their warmth and their support. They had been there for him forever, and while he knew they still were, it was harder to remember the tightness of his mother’s arms and the strength of his father’s smile when he couldn’t see or feel them anymore. He even missed Sam’s obnoxious nerdiness, because he knew it was all delivered with such avid enthusiasm and a passion to share what he had learned with his big brother.

  Dean made a note to text Sam – maybe even call him – and reached for his paintbrush.

  But it wasn’t where he had laid it.

  His hand grasped at nothing, reached around a bit, and came up short. Dean frowned, finally looked over, and saw that it hadn’t just rolled away; it was definitely gone. A blob of paint was all that denoted its presence. He checked the floor. Nothing. Checked his easel. Nothing. Checked his other goddamn hand. _Nothing_.

  “What the…” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair again. Where in the hell could he have put it? He knew he’d definitely put it down there – the paint proved that. So how had it moved? And where the hell to?

  He slid off his stool, hands linked behind his head, and did a slow 360 scope of the place. There! On the other side of the room, propped up rather precariously against his sketchbook. His open sketchbook. The one he knew for a fact he hadn’t touched in six days.

  “What the fuck.” He allowed his arms to drop and his frown to deepen. “What the fuck?” He repeated, gesturing at it in a way that was purely for effect. He wasn’t above his little dramatics after all. He placed his left hand on his hip, cocked his head to the right, and with the other hand kneaded his eyes gently, scrambling his vision for a moment.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t need this.” He crossed the room in three short steps and seized the brush, brandished it.

  “No!” he declared to no one in particular. But, as he reflected on the events of moving day he figured that may not be quite right.  Oh hell no.

  “Oh **hell** no!” He slammed the brush back down on the book, and stalked away; not failing to notice exactly which page it had been turned to. Those eyes watched him leave.

 “I do not need a goddamn ghost in my house,” he shouted, making his way through his home. The downstairs was empty and bright, mid-morning sunlight streaming in. He mounted the first step of the staircase. “I do not need to have actually _seen_ a goddamn ghost, come to think of it.” He reached the landing. “And god help me if I actually _am_ talking to someone here, and not just my crazy self.”

  He yanked open the door to his bedroom. Empty. Guest bedroom; empty. Bathroom, similarly so. He sighed and made his way back to his bedroom where he crumpled to the floor and sat there, knees pulled up to his chin, back pressed firmly against the foot of his bed. He allowed his eyes to close.

  This was no good. He’d had such a promising week and now this. He must be losing his mind. If he wasn’t hallucinating ghosts any more then at the very least his memory was going because he sure as hell didn’t remember moving that paintbrush. This was a disaster. Dean crossed his arms over his knees and buried his head. Maybe he wasn’t ready to live on his own. Maybe the strain of it was playing tricks on his mind. He’d always had an over-active imagination, ever since he was little, so maybe the stress of moving was exacerbating that? He wanted nothing more than for it all to go away, but it wouldn’t. He knew that. He’d tried that once this week already and look where he’d ended up; freaking out over a mislaid paintbrush.

  He could just go home. He could just… No. No he couldn’t. He’d made a commitment to this place, to this house, to this town. He’d made promises to his parents and his brother and his friends back home that he’d be alright, that they didn’t have anything to worry about. He couldn’t go running back to them over this. What even was this? This was nothing. He would cope.

  Dean sniffed a bit, wiped his stupid leaky eyes on his sleeve and lifted his head.To be completely honest he still half expected to see the man all over again when he looked up, but there was nothing. Nothing was out of place and nothing was there that shouldn’t be. He let out a shaky breath he was only half aware he had been holding and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

   It was still bright outside. Birds chirped in the tree that grew up to his window and sunshine streamed unobstructed in through the other to warm his skin and lighten his spirits. The world spun on as normal and Dean Winchester wanted to join it. He refused to become the weird old painter recluse who was convinced that ghosts were out to get him - at least whilst he was still this young. And this pretty.

  He stretched and rolled the cramps out of his shoulders and knees. He was only 26, he thought with no small amount of bitterness, so there was absolutely no need for such deep  _aching_  right down in his bones. That was completely unfair. On the positive side, he supposed as he cracked his knuckles and got the blood flowing again, at least he didn’t have to do anything too strenuous for work like run or - heaven forbid - fight. Like his dad had when he was with the army.

  John had mentioned several times during Dean’s childhood and young adulthood that he thought his son would be suited to a soldier’s life. He was young, fit, intelligent and resourceful; not to mention good with his hands and able to take orders fairly well. All things the military could improve upon, John had insisted whenever he could. But truth be told, Dean had only ever wanted to be an artist. He didn’t mind the medium and practiced all kinds growing up, but painting had a special place in his heart. Mary had encouraged his interest and his natural talent and it had taken off or him. Going to art school hadn’t hurt either.

   Nevertheless, John still didn’t really think that his eldest being a “freelance artist” was a job per say, so whenever Dean shifted a painting or completed a commission he always found time to remind his father that when they sold, they sold well. So far John had had to let the matter drop and Dean was certain that a few words from his mother had helped the matter along _tremendously_.  

  Smiling fondly to himself, Dean made his way back downstairs and upon considering the half-finished canvas still left in his art room was reminded suddenly that he had meant to go into town that morning to speak with Jim at the art shop. He had plans to set up a gallery or showing or something of his work. Nobody here knew him yet and anonymity wasn’t always an artist’s friend.

   In a rush of needless panicking Dean had completely forgotten all about it. Seeing as his day so far had mostly comprised of painting and a mini freak-out, it was only natural that the more mundane stuff had sort of slipped through the cracks to be largely ignored until they were jolted back to the forefront for his rather hesitant attention.

  He didn’t mind the art shop – enjoyed it even! - but it was where he first saw the man. The hallucination. And if staving off seeing him again was at all possible, Dean would rather not do anything that might jeopardise triggering it. Which meant the art shop was a potential danger zone.

  Brilliant. That place was the only one for miles. Where else was he supposed to go?

  “This is bullshit,” he declared to no one in particular. “I’m not going to be bullied away from Jim’s by something I dreamt up. Fuck that.”

  He was just going to get his jacket when the TV caught his attention. He had left it on earlier for ambient noise during breakfast and, evidently, had forgotten to turn it off. The end of some news report was running. A reporter stood outside a small house where a small pile of flowers were heaped up against the garden wall. She grimaced at the camera and gestured at the offerings, all whilst continuing to speak.

  “- has been sixteen days since Mr Castiel Novak was last seen and his family refuse to give up hope. They are urging anyone who might have information about Mr Novak’s whereabouts to step forwards.”

  The top-left side of the screen now hosted a picture. It was informal, obviously taken on a phone by friends or family. The man in it was smiling, laughing, holding a present in his hands and looking over to whomever was acting photographer. He wore a tacky Christmas jumper, but that didn’t matter. He was clean-shaven, but that didn’t matter. His hair was tidier, not sticking up so much at the front. But that didn’t matter.

  What mattered was that this man – this Castiel Novak – had the same blue eyes, the same full lips, the same cleft chin and deeply-scored cheeks as the man outside the art shop.

  Dean Winchester was staring at the face of his hallucination on the local news. His ghost was real.  


	6. Chapter 6

   “He’s real.” Dean’s voice broke on the last word; his whisper simultaneously full of relief and terror. Though he moved his mouth no more words followed so he stopped trying.  He had apparently moved at some point to kneel closer to the flickering pictures but didn’t remember doing it, and he allowed his hand to lift and cover his mouth though, again, he wasn’t conscious of deciding to do it. Throughout it all his eyes never left the screen that was now mere inches from his face.

  The reported finished up her piece and it returned to the studio where the new smiling woman, all teeth and eyes introduced a fluff piece obviously intended to lift the spirits of anyone watching. It did nothing to calm Dean. If anything it actually made it worse. The anchorwoman chattered on, completely unmoved by what had just shattered Dean’s worldview, and inspirational pictures of animals defying the odds consumed the screen as Dean reeled inside his own head.

  He sat back on his still-bent legs and switched the set off. He stared blankly for a few moments at his own dim reflection before wordlessly climbing to his feet and pacing the room. 

  He was real. Ok. So, that was a relief, sure, because that meant he wasn’t completely losing it, but on the other hand, _he was real_. Real. A real ghost. A real ghost that Dean had seen. A real ghost that Dean had seen when nobody else had. That had to mean something surely, but what?

  The whole thing was starting to make his head hurt and as a result Dean decided not to dwell on the particulars of the matter. Who cared about the logistics of seeing the dead when what mattered the most was that his ghost was real. And just what the hell was supposed to do about that?

    He wasn’t the bloody ghost whisperer. He wasn’t a psychic in touch with the great beyond. He didn’t have the first clue about talking with ghosts, or helping ghosts, or, hell, even knowing how to get rid of the bastards. Was he going to have to do that with this one? Was he gonna have to exorcise him? Make him go into the light? He reeeeally hoped not. For one, he didn’t believe in God and he was pretty sure that was a requisite for properly banishing trapped spirits. Even that Constantine guy believed in God and…

  Oh geez, would you listen to him. Even in his own head he sounded nuts. Trapped spirits, for the love of…

   He couldn’t believe he was actually considering all of this crap. He was getting carried away and needed to stop. None of this was his problem, after all. He felt bad for the guy, sure, because clearly he wasn’t just a missing person anymore. This guy was without a doubt dead in a ditch somewhere, and that sucked, he could appreciate that, but what was **he** supposed to do about it? He was an artist for crying out loud, not Oda Mae Brown, and he didn’t even _own_ a Ouija Board. 

  His one-sided mental discussion ended with Dean collapsing on the sofa with his head in his hands and groaning loudly. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know if he was meant to do anything. For all he knew it had been a freak occurrence. People saw ghosts all the time, if the stories were to be believed; and after all this it was looking like they should be. Nobody expected those people to go help the ghosts they’d seen.

  But this felt different and Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that he was supposed to at least try and help the guy. After all, as far as the world knew Castiel Novak was theoretically still alive out there. It was only Dean that knew it wasn’t so. That made it his responsibility. The guy’s family had a right to know what had happened.

   He was just starting to formulate a strategy when reason kicked in and it all came tumbling down. There was no way on this Earth that Dean could just waltz up to the Novak’s and proclaim their missing relative dead. He knew, he would insist, because he had seen the guy’s ghost! He was sure that would go over extremely well. He’d probably even be rewarded with a nice long court-mandated therapy session and maybe even a restraining order to keep all the crazy away from the grieving.

  Yeah there goes that plan.

  No. He couldn’t do any of that stuff. He was a painter, a few hundred miles away from the town Mr Novak had disappeared from, who had no solid connection to him other than the ghost thing. You throw all that at people searching for their son and brother and it isn’t going to end well. Even if he did have the best of intentions at heart he’d only end up hurting them more.

  Not to mention he hadn’t actually _met_ this Castiel guy yet. Not formally at least. Shouting and running away doesn’t exactly count as a healthy introduction after all. That decided it. Against his better judgement, he was going to have to try and contact the ghost if he wanted to help in any way.

  _Did_ he want to help? Dean felt guilty for even questioning it, but it had to be considered. On the one hand, it would be tremendously dickish not to. The guy was dead, his family didn’t know and he was a ghost, which was something the movies always portrayed to be because of something unresolved. Unresolved didn’t sit well with Dean. However… on the other hand this would mean embracing the fact that he had seen a real, honest to God ghost, and was intending to willingly throw himself into the supernatural fray. And that didn’t sound super appealing to him.

   The world was nice as it was. It was bright and happy, he could paint to his heart’s content, there were people who loved him and he hadn’t been to a therapist since he was seventeen. That was _good_. _He_ was good. If he pursued this ghost thing though… what would happen to him?

  And yet… It felt inherently wrong to abandon the guy to what might be an eternity of solitude between life and what possibly came next. He wasn’t an expert on the matter and he didn’t believe in an afterlife, but he didn’t think the ghost thing was the final step. And if there was no heaven or hell to send him to then this Novak guy at least deserved to have someone try to help - even if that just meant helping the guy come to terms with being dead.

   In fact, when Dean thought back to first seeing the man, he recalled that the guy hadn’t seemed to grasp that he was a ghost yet. Hell, Dean himself hadn’t realised at first. The man had been desperately trying to talk to people until he had been run through by that car. It was the car which seemed to have made him finally understand that he wasn’t alive anymore.

  Maybe it was that that was keeping him here then. Denial. If so, Dean could certainly relate, and might be of some use. If he could talk to the guy, he reasoned, and make him come to terms with not being of the mortal coil, then maybe – just maybe – he could move on, or whatever, and Dean could get back to his life minus the “ _I see dead people_ ” thing.  

  It was worth a shot at least.

  Dean cast a rather tentative gaze around his front room looking for anything that seemed out of place. It seemed to be empty but what if the ghost had followed him as he’d suspected earlier? There was that paintbrush after all. And he was certain that he had turned the TV off that morning. If he had then maybe a certain spectral guest had made sure the TV was back on so Dean could see the news report. Ghosts could do that, couldn’t they? Interact with some things? It rang a few bells in the movie-trivia corner of his mind and that was good enough for him.

  So now all he had to do was try and see the phantom he had been desperately trying to block for the past week, which sounded a lot easier than he figured it might turn out to be. Despite deciding to talk to the ghost, there was still a part of him desperate to call it all a dream, a hallucination, it’s crazy, so why aren’t you running away now, Dean? That part of him was loud. It was insistent. It was making it very difficult for him to wholeheartedly throw caution to the wind and seek out the disembodied spirit potentially haunting his house. He didn’t like that idea. He didn’t like that he might be haunted.

  But he had to remind himself; this ghost was still just a guy. He was scared, and alone, and newly dead, and probably way more freaked out about the whole thing than Dean was.

  “Think spiders, Dean. More scared of you, et cetera et cetera.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure they really think in terms of fear. It’s mostly instinct.”

  Dean spun around startled and exclaimed in shock; eyes widening and arms coming up unconsciously to ward off harm. There in the corner of the room stood Novak. One of his arms he held as if crossed across his chest whilst the other rested by its elbow on the first. He held that hand bent slightly back in a position suggestive of debate. His head was turned sideways and he wasn’t even looking in Dean’s direction. The expression he wore was one of extreme boredom tinged with speculative musing.

   In short, he didn’t look anything like Dean was expecting. His earlier wild-eyed look was gone and he almost appeared somewhat resigned, though to what Dean wasn’t certain of.

  As Dean yelped Novak froze. His crossed arm dropped, as did the hand he held rather stiffly up. His head swivelled and the eyes Dean had only ever seen filled with fear instantly met his own.

  “You can see me again?” The man appeared doubtful. Wary, even. He said it again but with more force. “Can you see me?” His eyes bored into Dean’s and he recognised that the desperation he had seen the last time was still there. He cleared his throat, tried for a smile but settled for a half-grimace.

  “Yeah,” he managed with an unsteady voice. “Yeah I can.”

  Novak’s shoulders slumped forwards and he sighed in relief. When he looked back up he was smiling widely.

  “Oh thank God. I’ve waited all week for you to say that.” He straightened and offered a hand before remembering Dean probably couldn’t take it. He retracted it grinning sheepishly. “My name is Castiel Novak and I really need your help.”

  Dean took a moment to absorb what was happening. Well. No point balking now, he figured. He offered his own hand that he withdrew just as quickly, cocked his head and shrugged one shoulder.

  “I’m Dean Winchester,” he replied, “and I’ll see what I can do.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

   Dean had moved to sit in the armchair by the window and had booted up his laptop, deftly searching the name Castiel Novak and clicked through several news pages. He had offered a seat to Castiel as he searched but the guy had simply stared, smiling gently, until Dean caught on. Right. He was a ghost. Ghosts are i _ntangible_. Somehow he’d already forgotten.

   As he considered it, he supposed that having Castiel here, real and present rather than as a sleep-deprived delusion made the man feel less like an apparition and more like an genuine person. That was reassuring, thinking of him as a person. The message had begun to be driven home when he saw the news report but having actually started speaking to him really sealed the deal. Dean figured he was adapting fairly well, all things considered.

  “So, uh, Castiel. Castiel?” He glanced over at the man standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and raised a questioning eyebrow. “That’s quite the name.” He didn’t have to ask; the unspoken question was obvious.

  Castiel’s brow furrowed but not with anger. His arms were crossed almost defensively but the hand tucked into the crook of his elbow lifted to rub the upper arm. He didn’t seem to notice. 

  “You’re telling me,” he replied, still rubbing. “I have no idea what it means.”

  “Your parents never told you?”

  “My…? Oh. Oh I have no idea. I don’t remember anything before standing in the street the other day.”

  This caught Dean completely off guard. No wonder the guy had been so desperate; if he hadn’t been able to remember anything and nobody had even paid him the blind bit of notice, then it must have felt like he’d fallen into a nightmare where nothing made any sense. It must have felt like he didn’t even exist. The prospect was horrifying.

  All at once every single one of Dean’s concerns and fears seemed laughably trivial in comparison. Selfish, even. He hoped the guilt didn’t show on his face but as he felt his cheeks warm he knew they were reddening. He’d always blushed annoyingly easily.

   Fortunately for him Castiel was paying him no mind whatsoever. Instead, the spectre stared at the floor with such intensity Dean half expected the rug to start to smoulder, and though he was chewing anxiously on his bottom lip, he again didn’t seem to notice. Dean was about to interfere, tell him to stop before it started bleeding, when he remembered the man in his house couldn’t bleed even if he wanted to. He probably didn’t even feel his teeth worrying away at it.

  It was annoying, he reflected, that the man seemed so… well…  _normal_. He wasn’t translucent. He wasn’t levitating a few inches above the floor. He wasn’t even of the old-timey variety and wearing period clothes. Not to mention he hadn’t walked through a single thing in the few minutes since he had become visible again - not even a damn wall.

  No. Absolutely nothing about the guy suggested the paranormal. Even his work clothes were nondescript in their characterless display of bland. He was commonplace. Everyday. There was nothing about him that even hinted at the fact that Dean had a real-life, honest to God  **ghost**  in his damn front room. How was he supposed to even begin to try to deal with that?

  Dean slowly came back to himself, considering something that suddenly occurred to him.

  “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?” he asked, his mind racing trying to process what he’d been told. “You seemed pretty confident of your name at least.”

  Castiel jumped slightly at the voice and looked around, seemingly aware all of a sudden that Dean could see him again, was _talking_ to him again. Dean figured in the week he must have been silent and unseen that maybe the guy had already become resigned to an eternity of isolation. Unsought invisibility must be a hard thing to cope with - especially when you’re around someone who should be able to see you - and perhaps Castiel didn’t want to get his hopes up too high; perhaps he still held misgivings from that time when Dean had, you know, screamed profanities at him and then fled, essentially abandoning a terrified amnesiac to his bewilderment and misery.

   The suggestion of an expression of pleasure began to creep over his face but he supressed it, keeping it muted. Dean supposed his uninvited guest didn’t want to give away how delighted he was to be seen again. It was a sensible reaction, Dean reasoned, but it didn’t cool the hot redness again prickling in his cheeks.

  This time Castiel did notice the rising blush in his host’s face and responded with a strangely gentle smile. It was a smile that had no suggestion of resentment in it, nor did it seem to find humour in Dean’s discomfort. Despite the fact that it was clearly subdued and there was no actual, detectable joy in Castiel’s eyes, it was a gentle expression that was simultaneously depthless in its compassion and comforting in its consideration.

  It was a smile so calming Dean thought he could lose himself in it forever. He wondered if it was specially intended to lessen Dean’s discomfort or whether it was his natural smile but under closer examination the way it failed to illuminate his eyes confirmed to Dean that it was indeed manufactured. Behind it he could tell that Castiel was still very much that terrified stranger breaking down in the street. It was pretty strange, Dean couldn’t help but think, that Castiel should be the one to even attempt to offer reassurance when it was he who had died.

  The thought did nothing to soothe his guilt-reddened cheeks and they burned ever brighter.

 

  “No,” Castiel finally managed, the smile melting off of his face to be replaced by something vague. His eyes were unfocused, his stare directed at somewhere far beyond what the wall allowed. Dean knew whatever he was seeing was not within his home. “I don’t remember anything else,” he continued in a soft voice. “All I can really remember is my first name; I learnt the rest from that news report.” He looked troubled and started gnawing on his lip again. “I’m a news report,” he murmured absently and Dean knew it wasn’t directed at him to hear.

   Castiel was looking increasingly haunted and it was clear that much of what was happening hadn’t yet fully sunk in. Dean could relate though he couldn’t even begin to fathom being in Castiel’s shoes. The thought made him shudder internally. Never mind having to deal with almost total amnesia as well as the jarring discovery that you aren’t even alive, Dean was still having trouble believing that the man in front of him was real. He couldn’t be entirely certain that Castiel was not simply the product of his overactive imagination twinned with a deeply tired and stressed mind. But seeing him standing there looking so confused and lost and understandably distraught made him think that maybe this was all truly happening after all. _I may have an imagination_ , he thought, _but I don’t think I could conjure up the sheer depth of emotion on that guy’s face._  

  He leaned forward in his chair and moved the laptop to the floor. He rested pointed elbows on his knees and then supported his chin laid on the backs of interlaced hands. He smiled at Castiel in what he hoped was a reassuring manner but was overly aware that he couldn’t match the soothing expression the ghost had directed at him only moments prior.

  “So let’s work with that,” he said. “You’re Castiel Novak. You went missing sixteen days ago from Pontiac. You had such terrible taste in Christmas jumpers that I am going to pretend I never saw that.” He shot a glance at the ghost and was pleased to note a small smile growing on his face. “You have a sister and a brother, so says the internet, and they are spearheading the search for you. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  “Unfortunately not. I have siblings?”

  “Yeah. Anna and Balthazar. Balthazar? What the hell did your parents have against you guys.”

  Another small smile. Dean picked his laptop back up and clicked through to the page he remembered Castiel’s family being on.  “There you see?” He flipped the laptop around and Castiel drifted closer. He leaned in close to the picture and looked puzzled.

  “This is them? Anna Milton and Balthazar Novak, 24 and 32,” he read, ”ask that anyone with information about their missing brother Castiel Novak, 29, come forward.” He raised an eyebrow, looked up at Dean. “I’m 29. Apparently.”

  “Just one year away from the big three-oh,” Dean joked before realising what he’d said. Castiel would never reach thirty, even if he haunted the world for a thousand years. He started to stutter out an apology but Castiel shook it off.

  “It’s ok, Dean. But… we not talk about that if you don’t mind. I don’t think I can handle the ghost thing yet. I, um, I think I’d rather focus on trying to figure out who I was, if that’s ok with you?”

  “Sure man, that sounds good to me. I’m sure the internet is full of interesting little factoids just waiting to be uncovered.” He managed a quiet little sigh of relief. Googling, he was pretty sure he could manage. Counselling someone through dealing with their newfound ghosthood? Maybe not so much. He cracked his fingers and got to typing.

  “Castiel Novak,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “let me introduce _you_ to _you_.”


	8. Chapter 8

   “Nothing. Zero. Zilch. You had absolutely no internet presence whatsoever.” Dean sighed, long and loud, and slumped back in his chair. The arm he flung over his eyes was perhaps a touch too dramatic but he felt justified in it. After all, he’d spent the past four hours trawling the web for any hint of Castiel back when he was alive, all with no results.

  “Honestly,” he complained, “how can you have not even had an embarrassing MySpace or something? I mean, Jesus Christ, at this point I’d accept an abandoned  _Neopets account_ , if just to prove you actually went online, just once, in your whole goddamn life.”

  “I’m sorry Dean.” The ghost looked downcast. He hadn’t moved from Dean’s side since they’d started looking and with one sidelong glance Dean could tell he was taking it hard. He lowered his arm and plastered his widest grin across his face in an effort to reassure his strange new friend.

  “Nah, don’t worry man,” he said, shrugging one shoulder, “I know a few other people who don’t like to do much online either. I guess you’re just one of them.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and turned the rest of the way towards the man crouching beside his chair. “Hey, in fact, I guess we did learn something about you after all.”

  “That I’m a technophobe?” Castiel seemed sceptical.

  “Maybe. Or perhaps you were chronically shy. Or a Luddite! In any case it’s a start.” He busied himself with shutting down his laptop and so wasn’t looking at the ghost when he continued: “I don’t think there’s much more we can do short of actually going to see your family.”

  No response. He closed the laptop and turned to see Castiel staring somewhere off in the middle distance. If he had any blood Dean would have sworn it had drained out of his face leaving his otherwise normal complexion ashen. The guy looked spooked.

  “Cas?” Nothing. “Hey man, are you with me?”

  He got out of his chair and waved a hand in front of Castiel’s glassy eyes. That seemed to do the trick. Cas seemed to jump back to himself from wherever he had been and blinked a few times. His eyes quickly focused in on Dean’s but despite the colour somehow seeming to return to his face he continued to look deeply troubled.

  Dean wasn’t sure what to do. He bit his lower lip and tried for a half-smile. It wasn’t returned.

  “Cas…?”

   “Yes. Sorry, Dean.”

  “Where did you go, man?”

  Suddenly Castiel was the one looking nervous and uncertain. He repeated that odd tic from before, rubbing his upper arm, seemingly without realising it. He turned away and in a hushed voice said; “I’m scared, Dean. I still don’t know who I am. I don’t know who those people looking for me are; I don’t remember having siblings, or parents, or friends and people who cared about me.” He frowned. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy to know people cared enough to miss me, but…” He bit his lip.

  “You’re scared.”

  “Yeah. How am I supposed to go see them if I’m invisible. If I’m _dead_? I’m dead, Dean, and I’m never going to be able to talk to my family or my old friends or anything. I can learn about it all I want, but I can never live it, ever again. So I was just… thinking…. Oh I don’t know, it was just this stupid thing that occurred to me. It doesn’t matter.” He broke off and turned away, looking extremely uncomfortable.

  Dean stared for a moment. Feigning composure he scratched a spot just above his right eyebrow and cocked his head slightly, shrugging.  “Hey man,” he said, “whatever it is, I’m sure it isn’t. If it’s how you feel, it’s how you feel. You can tell me if you want, but no pressure.”

  “Th… thank you Dean.” The ghost turned slightly back to him but his eyes were still downcast. The rubbing continued. He paused for a moment and seemed to search for just the right words to explain himself. “I was thinking…” he started, slowly. He cleared his throat. “I was thinking that I don’t know the man I used to be. I’m not him anymore and, even if I do remember, or learn or whatever, I’m not going to be him again. I don’t think. I don’t want to go and see people I don’t know crying over someone who has my name and my face but isn’t me. Does that sound selfish? I think that sounds selfish.”

  “It sounds reasonable enough to me. Look. We’ll do whatever makes you comfortable, ok? This is about you and I figure you’ve had enough trauma to last you a while. If you don’t wanna go do the dancing bit from Ghost, that’s cool, we won’t do it.” At this point he was desperately fighting the urge to lay a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. Having it go straight through him, he figured, might not improve the situation any. Instead, he smiled as kindly as he could, meeting Castiel’s eyes once more and was thrilled to see a small smile mirrored there. He laughed nervously and threw his hands up in an over-the-top shrug.

  “To tell you the truth I am nowhere ready to tell a bunch of grieving relatives I can see the ghost of their missing guy. I don’t think that would put their minds at ease any more than it would yours. So let’s lay low for a while ok? I still need to process this, you definitely do, and though it must be really terrible for your family right now, I’m not sure what I could actually do for them. Hell, I go there babbling about ghosts and I’m either gonna be arrested for harassment or they’ll think I was the guy who did you in.” He flinched. “Sorry.”

  “It’s ok, Dean. Taking it easy sounds good to me. I uh… I do need to process this.”  He glanced sadly down at his hands and the floor through them. As if sensing Dean’s worry he glanced up and treated him to the warm expression he donned earlier. “Don’t worry,” he said in a reassuring tone, “you’ve already helped me so much. Without you I’d still be in the street just screaming for people to notice me.” If he noticed the blush creeping into Dean’s cheeks he didn’t comment on it.

   “Oh, uh, yeah that’s ok. I mean… Again, I’m sorry for how I acted before.”

   “Dean, that’s-“

  “No, no, it was rude and selfish and must have been making everything you’re going through so much worse so I am so sorry. I’m still a little freaked out, to be completely honest, but I promise, I’m gonna try to help you figure this shit out.” He saluted before collapsing back into his chair. “Scout’s honour.”

  Cas looked relieved - and no small amount awkward - but at least now the guy wasn’t staring off into the astral plane or whatever. He looked, happy almost, even though his eyes were still upsettingly sad and distant but Dean figured baby steps, and besides, it was justified. All he could do was try to help and make an unspeakably terrible situation just a teensy bit better. He owed him that much.

  “So, Cas man, I figure you might as well haunt this place for a while, if you want? It’s as good a place as any right, and I mean, hell, if I’m not painting or whatever you might actually get someone to talk to here. ‘Course, if you wanna go somewhere else, that’s cool. I just-“

  “Thank you Dean. If you really don’t mind, I think I’ll stay a while, and don’t worry I’ll keep out of your way.” He grinned his first real grin and glanced slyly over. ”You are my psychic after all,” he said.

  “Oh, ew gross man, don’t call me that, I don’t wanna be a _psychic_.”  Dean shuddered. “I’m still having a hard time handling just the one ghost, I don’t want to go into business or anything and advertise it all around. Hell no, no way.”

  And Castiel managed an honest to God chuckle at that that Dean was pretty sure lifted at least some of the soul-deep sadness in his new friend. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He’d heal in his own time, _but at least I can be a friend,_ Dean mused as the two started up a new rapport about the house and the town and how Dean would show him around come tomorrow.

  It was the small hours of the morning before Cas noticed the circles darkening under Dean’s eyes and the way his eyelids kept drooping against his will. When the man tried to stifle a yawn too big to be supressed, he knew it had gone on for too long. He didn’t get tired, he realised, but Dean… Dean was exhausted.

   He hurried the living man off to bed as quickly as he could manage and, listening to the bangs of a sleep-deprived man dressing haphazardly for bed in the room above him, Castiel settled in with just his thoughts for company for yet another night, content. This time he knew there would be someone to greet him in the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

    The next morning arrived late for Dean. Muted sunlight shone through gaps in the leaves outside his window and gently warmed his face with dappled light. He was eased up near noon with noticeably less savagery than the beams that often acted as his alarm clock which, at this point, he suspected enjoyed viciously stabbing him in the eyes. It was nice for a change to  _not_  experience blinding pain as he was wrenched awake. He was warm and comfortably wrapped in soft blankets and fresh sheets. A breeze wafted in from the window he had left slightly ajar the night before. He closed his eyes and lay there for several minutes just soaking in the softened daylight and listened peacefully to the sounds around him.

  The house was quiet, undisturbed. Outside a bird perched in his tree and made pleasant music. Kids played in the street and in the grass in front of their houses and the sound of their laughter brought back memories of days spent playing with his brother when they were little. A car drove lazily past, followed by another going quite a bit faster. He imagined the scowls of people watching as it sped by in sleepy suburbia, completely unmindful of the nature of the place.

   There was no rush to get up and nowhere he especially had to be. His day was free and warm and pleasant and blank. Laying on his back he idly ran through a list of things he could fill his day with and ticked off minor chores as he went. He could go shopping later for dinner ingredients, he decided, and try to make something different. The Impala hadn’t been washed in a while, and maybe he could paint a little more of the picture he had abandoned or even sketch something new. Or maybe he could even go into town to find out about local galleries or art shows like he’d planned to do before. 

   The thought held appeal and this time the memory of the strange man who summoned such feelings of terror, didn’t. There was no looming sense of dread, no terror, no unsettling sensation of doubting his own mind as he struggled to keep his grip on reality. Truth be told, he still had trouble believing it; that the man had been real - _was_ real - was really real and really dead and really downstairs right now and how on Earth had he managed to accidentally befriend a ghost? But he had. And it was nice to know he wasn’t insane, although as he contemplated it, he reckoned that the verdict was still out on that one.

  People didn’t typically see dead people after all, never mind talk to them.

  The light faltered outside and a gentle pattering sound made him sit up in bed. Raindrops fat and heavy fell from still sunny skies to soak the kids playing outside and sent them squealing inside. He figured that somewhere out there a rainbow would be just starting to stretch across the sky above them and people would tell their children not to point because rainbows were by their nature shy and would disappear at once if they did.

   His mother had told him the same thing when he was small and he had held her wisdom in such high regard for years until, one day, he’d tried it rebelliously and was utterly horrified when the bridge of light vanished right before his eyes. He remembered with amused fondness running to his mother, distraught and apologising, and Mary had taken him into her lap and laughed and held him tight until he calmed down. Then she had taken him back outside and there it was again, shining across the sky, and though he had reached for it, chased it with Sammy at his heels, it was always jut out of reach. Untouchable. Intangible. A mirage of many colours too beautiful and too vibrant to be touched by the hands of a muddy eight year old no matter how hard he stretched for it.

  The memory was a happy one and it brought a smile to his face that lingered long after he had showered, dressed and towel-dried his hair into a scruffy mess that stuck out all ways. He used his fingers as rough combs as he went to throw his towel in an overflowing laundry basket before he stopped, sighed, and figured that he might as well add laundry to his list of chores. He hefted the thing onto his hip like his mother had showed him when he was just a kid realising he quite liked domestic jobs and headed downstairs.

  It was quiet but not silent. Rain tapped against the windows and the gentle breeze from earlier lifted into a bluster that he noticed was trying its damndest to rip the last of the leaves off of his trees and whirl them around in wild little cyclones before dumping them as soon as it lost interest. He wouldn’t have minded usually; it was autumn and the leaves were bound to go sooner or later, but now that he had his own place complete with its own trees and garden, it seemed sad that his plants would soon be stark and bare. Plus he’d probably have to rake them all up and he contemplated the job with no small amount of ire.

  He loaded up the washing machine and set it going, then straightened and leaned against the counter, looking outside. It was too windy and too wet to pin his clothes outside now. Maybe later when this shower had ended…

  He made himself toast and poured juice, ignoring the fact that it was nearer to lunch than breakfast, and sat at his small table to eat. The rain continued to patter but the wind seemed to calm down slightly and he enjoyed listening to the sounds of the outside as he ate in the comfort of his own kitchen. When he was done he added his glass and plate to the stack next to the sink but figured that was a job for later, if not tomorrow, even.

  He linked his fingers, pushed them up and outwards and arched his back until everything clicked satisfyingly and he could roll the remaining sleep out of his muscles. He yawned, blinked a couple of times and started some coffee going. Then he wandered through to the living room and found it empty. He pulled the curtains open to let the light in and again peered outside, watching the skies and looking for rainbows. He didn’t see any but at least the rain seemed to be letting up. Maybe he could get his clothes dry today after all.

  He turned back to the room, half expecting his new housemate to be there, but there was no sign of him. He moved back to the kitchen to pour his coffee and still the ghost didn’t materialise. Dean allowed a tendril of worry to creep into his otherwise tranquil mood but didn’t allow it to grow to large or plant roots too deeply. The ghost had said he would stay. There was no reason he would take off in the middle of the night and so it made sense that he would still be around somewhere. Dean was jumping the gun, he was sure. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feel that this wasn’t good for his delicate sense of mental stability, but he would not do well to go questioning it again so soon. Better to go look for the wayward phantom than to assume the worst: that either he’d split or was a figment after all, because Dean didn’t much care for that second option.

  He checked the living room once more, coffee in hand, and still found it sans spectre. He didn’t think Cas would be upstairs but headed up anyway. His bedroom was as he’d left it, as was the bathroom, and the tiny guest bedroom was just as empty as it had been when he moved in. He padded back downstairs sipping the dregs of his drink and rounded the bottom of the stairs. He was walking through the archway back into the kitchen when he almost walked straight through the ghost silently standing in his way.

  “Jesus fuck-!” He choked on the coffee, coughed, spluttered, and narrowly managed to avoid joining Cas on the spectral plane.

  “Hello Dean.” The ghost looked at him apprehensively all whilst cocking his head and squinting. Dean stumbled backwards and threw out his free arm to catch the wall.

  “Cas, man,” he managed, “you can’t _do_ that to me.” He grasped at his chest and took a deep breath, calming himself and willing his heart to slow its shocked, accelerated beating. Wide-eyed and panting slightly he slowly slid his eyes up to meet Cas’ perplexed stare and huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ, man, you’ve got to give me some warning next time. Clear your throat, cough, anything; you move like a freakin’ _ninja_.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked a little ashamed and Dean straightened, grinned and waved his empty cup in an easy, offhand way.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. Should have been looking where I was going. But seriously we need to get you a bell or something.” He added the coffee cup to the to-wash pile and turned back, folding his arms and leaning against the sink. “Where were you?” he asked. “I couldn’t find you.”

  The ghost’s worried expression melted away somewhat to be replaced with a slightly guilty one.

  “I was in your art room,” he murmured. “I’ve sort of… been here a while…. You know, when you still couldn’t see me? It was kind of boring so I started to enjoy watching your paintings come along and looking at your art.” He glanced up and looked sheepish. Dean was starting to think that was his default expression. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. I mean, yeah, it’s a bit creepy, but I figured you’d been haunting me for a bit anyway. How long exactly?”

  “Umm… Since we first met?” He looked squarely at his feet and continued talking to them instead of Dean. “I didn’t know where else to go and you were the only one who had even _hinted_ that you could see me so, I just sort of, followed you. I… I’m sorry.”

  Dean didn’t answer at first, just nodded. He contemplated it, crossed his arms, shut his eyes. When he opened them Castiel was staring anxiously at him again with puppy-eyes strangely similar to the ones his brother used when he was begging for something. When he began speaking again it was slow, measured. He took his time, finding the right words.

  “Look. Cas. It’s fine. Honestly. I can’t even begin to imagine how much this must all suck for you and I get it; I was some kind of beacon of hope or whatever, so you clung to me like a weird psychic life raft and I do not blame you one bit. Hell, it’s what I’d do. So don’t worry. I don’t mind that you followed me here. I don’t mind that you kinda haunted me.”

  Cas looked relieved. He licked his bottom lip and shrugged one shoulder.

  “So you really don’t mind that I’m here? I mean, I’m not disturbing you or anything, am I?”

  That made Dean laugh.

  “Oh, man, believe me I am disturbed beyond belief. But creepy and weird as this all is, I’m gonna try to do this ‘ _I see dead people’_ thing for you anyway. Sadly, I don’t personally know the Ghost Whisperer and so I can’t get her on speed-dial for you which I guess means that I’m all you got.”

  “Thank you, Dean. And I really am sorry for sneaking around your place all week. I promise, I only stayed downstairs. I mostly explored your garden and watched you paint.”

  “Sounds really boring. You watched me paint, huh?” That triggered a memory. “Hey… So it was you that moved the paintbrush? Thank God, I thought I was going crazy. You can touch things?”

  “Oh, I’ve only managed to move that brush.” He lifted his hands and waggled his fingers. “I don’t know why. I just remember feeling frustrated and tired and upset and without thinking I’d picked it up. You weren’t looking though, and I was just thinking, you know, how do I let you know I’m here, and it was slipping out of my hands, so I just put it down next to your sketchbook. The one with the eyes in it.”

  “The eyes? Oh, shit, I forgot about that.” He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand and then it was his turn to look sheepish. “Those are meant to be your eyes, you know. I was just sketching and they just, I dunno, appeared. Drawing does that sometimes; becomes things you didn’t set out to do and you know-”

  He rambled on embarrassed and stared away out of the window, and so he didn’t notice Castiel’s face light up with interest and wide-eyed excitement.

  “They’re…. they’re my eyes?”

  Dean turned back. The man looked speechless, overjoyed. He was, strangely, white as a sheet and covering his mouth with tented hands that Dean swore were trembling.

  “Uh… Are you alright?”

  “They’re mine?” he repeated, insistent. “You’re sure?”    

  “Well, uh, yeah. You have really distinct eyes, you know.”

  “I don’t know! I have no idea what I look like now.”

  Dean frowned. “But… the news report had a photo of you?”

  Castiel scoffed and waved it away. “No,” he said, moving in closer, “that was who I was. Those eyes you drew are who I am now – here – and I don’t know what I look like, like… well, like this.” His face was full of expectation and hopefulness and he reached out to grab Dean’s arm in his hurry. It passed through but he didn’t seem to notice. Dean shivered at the sensation though and rubbed the cold spot as he stared in fascination at the ghost. He had never seen him this animated.  

   “Dean,” he said, trying to remain somewhat serious despite the eagerness so plain on his face. “Wil you draw me? Or paint me? Whichever is easier. Please. I want to know what I look like.”

  Well. A request like that was hard to deny. Dean smiled, nodded, and gestured to his art room.

  “Cas, it would be my pleasure.”


	10. Chapter 10

Having a ghost sit for a portrait wasn’t actually very different to having a living model. In fact, in Dean’s honest opinion, it was better. Most models Dean had come up against had always fidgeted and could never manage to sit still for very long. Some– like his little brother – got bored and tended to wander off before he was done. Sammy would sit swinging his legs and beaming for all of ten minutes until he heard their mother come in from work or their father finally leave his tinkering in the garage alone, at which point the kid would gleefully scamper off to go describe how his day was with nary a care for Dean’s suddenly postponed art.

 

  Others, like his mother or father, really did try, he knew, but for one reason or another could never hold position for very long: there was always some car to be tinkered with or some job to go and do, and so John would maybe sit, arms folded, for perhaps half an hour, and then abruptly get up and leave, whilst Mary was a slightly better model. Still, despite her best efforts, again she could never sit for very long. To her credit she would always leave with an apology and a kiss for the top of Dean’s head as she passed, telling him to keep at it, kiddo, don’t give up.

 

  It was a wonder their family portrait was ever finished.

 

  Fortunately for Dean’s latest artistic endeavour Castiel didn’t need to breathe or blink or fidget. He didn’t get tired, he wasn’t attacked by a sudden sneezing or coughing and by his own admission he had nowhere better to be than right there. Without a shadow of a doubt, his latest model was by a long shot the best one he’d ever had.

 

  The only issue they faced was that Castiel by nature couldn’t sit on the seat that Dean would normally lay out for his subjects. When Dean voiced his concern, however, wondering if he should just paint him standing instead, the ghost had surprised him by leaning back, bending his knees and levitating slightly so that for all intents and purposes it appeared he was sat on an invisible chair. He allowed his feet to dangle a couple of inches off the ground and clasped his hands casually in his lap, apparently quite comfortable. He beamed from ear to ear with obvious pride and even managed another quiet laugh at Dean’s shocked face.

 

   To answer an onslaught of impressed questions and exclamations from the painter Castiel explained that he had figured it out a few days before when Dean was out one day and he had deigned to stay behind. He had tried sitting in the front room, he said, bored and waiting for Dean to return and had fallen straight through the couch.

 

  “For the first time I was glad nobody was watching. I must have looked ridiculous.”

 

  Dean couldn’t help it. The image of a grown man, a man who usually sported a pained or serious look about him, pinwheeling his arms as he fell through the solid object with an undoubtedly shocked expression on his face was just too hilarious to manage and he burst out laughing. After a moment of blank staring the corners of Cas’ mouth twitched once, twice, and before they knew it the two were both giggling uncontrollably like kids. In spite of his amusement, in an attempt to preserve at least _some_ dignity Castiel refused Dean’s pleads to demonstrate what the fall had looked like, and after a while Dean graciously allowed it.

  

   Their giggling eventually subsided and the ghost was able to explain that, fed up of being eternally standing, he was suddenly struck with the realisation that he was weightless. If that was the case, he figured, why not simply will himself to float up off the ground? He was utterly ecstatic when his feet lifted up off the ground for the first time.

 

  “You couldn’t see,” he said, smiling, “but I spent the next two days with my feet firmly off the ground. It’s nice to at least pretend you can sit on the couch.”

 

   Dean returned the smile as he busied himself with setting up a new canvas. Hus interrupted last painting still occupied the easel and Dean appraised it for a moment before setting it aside. He made a mental note to come back to it at some time. Better not let it get abandoned or allow himself to forget it, he thought, because otherwise it would remain unfinished forever. He had left a couple of half-done paintings back with his parents: paintings that he had started years prior and had left for so long he no longer wanted to look at them, let alone complete them. He had come to understand over the years that he worked best if he tried to do the whole job quickly, whilst his motivation was still up. If he allowed it to slack… well. Things got left behind.

 

He was determined not to do that with this painting.

 

“Sit a little straighter,” he instructed, squinting slightly at his levitating model. “Straighter. Ok, great, now turn a little left – _left_ , Cas – yeah that’s perfect.”

 

“Do you want me smiling, or…?”

 

“Whatever makes you comfortable, man. You want an accurate portrayal of you, right? So just do you.”

 

The ghost seemed to consider that for a moment. The edges of his lips quirked upwards ever so slightly, trembled, and fell back to his usual neutral expression. His folded hands twisted together nervously but he didn’t seem to notice, nor did Dean point it out. He closed his eyes; took a deep unnecessary breath, let it out slowly, allowing his eyes to slide slowly open.

 

“You good?”

 

   Cas focused in on Dean and nodded ever so slightly, though Dean suspected it was more for his benefit than the painter’s.

 

“Ok, great. Try not to move.”

 

   Castiel seemed to take Dean’s instructions completely to heart because he nodded one last time in affirmation and then immediately froze in place.

 

For the first forty minutes Dean didn’t realise what Cas was doing: or rather, what he was _not_ doing. His world had shrunk to paint and canvas as it did when he worked and he simply did not register the lack of movement in the other man. But as time ticked on and around the point most models would shift or, in the case of his brother, leave, passed it finally began to sink in.

 

   He knew Cas was a ghost – good God did he know – but up until this point the implications of all that meant had been hazy and abstract. As he continued to fill in colour he realised with some concern that when Castiel had frozen in place, he had frozen completely and all lingering pretences of life were abruptly dropped. The man didn’t inhale and he didn’t exhale. He didn’t twitch or clear his throat or lick his lips; his eyes didn’t flick from side to side as he surveyed the room and his fingers didn’t absently tap against his leg in boredom. The man was completely, unnaturally still. It stirred up something in the back of Dean’s head: some long-forgotten memory, perhaps, but it was quickly discarded in favour of continuing to paint.

 

   It was confusing. In terms of his painting, Castiel’s perfect stillness was fantastic – the best dead still-life he could ask for. But in terms of once again having to deal with the fact that his new housemate was paranormal and apparently able to switch off all lingering indicators of life freaked him the hell out. _More so_.

 

   He continued to paint, steadfastly, and tried to tell himself that the guy was just trying to follow his instructions to the best of his ability. It wasn’t really his fault that he was able to be completely still. Not really. He couldn’t tell Cas that he freaked him out; imagine how upset he’d get. He was still a person after all and no doubt Dean would hurt his feelings if he pointed out just how inhuman the ghost was.

 

Dean stabbed at the canvas with perhaps slightly more ferocity than was necessary. How many more times was he going to get weirded out by this guy? It was getting stupid and he felt ridiculous that he still hadn’t come to terms with it. He moved onto filling in Cas’ hair and berated himself for still being hung up on all of this.

 

   He’d honestly thought he was over it. He’d honestly thought he’d come to terms with the fact that the ghost of a missing man was currently staying with him, and that he was the only one who could see him for some reason and, _oh god_ , he was so not over it.

 

   The whole thing sounded completely crazy and there was no-one he could tell. The only one he could talk to about it was the dead man and compared to him Dean’s problems seemed laughably trivial because honestly, who whinges about being able to see a ghost, to a ghost?

 

   He was fed up of thinking this way.

 

“ _Enough_ ,” he thought, furrowing his brow as he tried to concentrate on filling in Cas’ eyes right. “ _Get over it already. Imagine how hard Cas has it. So you can see ghosts, big fucking whoop. Try being one, you insensitive prick.”_

 

“Dean?”

The voice jerked Dean back from his internal dressing-down. He glanced up from the canvas to see Cas watching him and the concern he wore was impossible to miss.

“Dean, are you alright? You looked… angry? We can stop if you want. It’s ok.”

“Oh! Oh, no, Cas, it’s nothing, don’t worry. I was just, uh, fighting with myself.”

   He laughed but it contained none of the humour they had shared earlier. Even to him it sounded hollow and incomplete.

   “I’m actually almost done here.” He added a couple more brushstrokes, cupped his chin, surveyed it, nodded; the picture of joviality. “Yep. Done. You can get up if you want, come take a look.” He smiled widely and gestured with a tilt of his head at the painting.

Castiel seemed to buy the laugh and the smile and he didn’t probe the matter, for which Dean was immeasurably grateful, but he still felt guilty and could barely meet the phantom’s eyes as he drifted closer to get his first look of how Dean saw him.

Castiel maintained a neutral expression as he crossed the room but internally he knew Dean was upset. Or mad. He wasn’t sure which. He didn’t know the man well enough to tell yet but he wasn’t stupid or blind and he knew something was wrong. He suspected – no, he _knew_ – that it was because of him. He knew it was his fault Dean was struggling, and he found himself thinking of the burden he must place upon the man.

   Because of how he was and because of what he was, he knew he was causing Dean Winchester so much unspoken anguish and confusion and he never intended any of that. Simply by existing he had forced Dean’s worldview to shift irrevocably and he felt such crushing sorrow at the notion.

   Maybe he should have stayed away, he thought. Maybe it had been selfish to invade this man’s life and home and force him into helping him when he was clearly not dealing very well. Maybe he should just leave. Maybe he should just-

“Cas? You alright?”

Castiel snapped out of his daydreaming to find the tables turned. This time it was Dean who was staring at him with worry in his eyes and this time it was Cas who had to reassure him that he was ok, he was fine, just lost in thought.

He knew Dean didn’t buy it just as Dean knew Cas hadn’t bought his lame excuses. Dean surprised them both by bursting into laughter once more. Castiel, who had stopped just shy of reaching the easel, simply looked on in mildly shocked confusion. As Dean’s laughter subsided he rubbed exhaustion out of his eyes and just sat there shaking his head in disbelief.

“God, I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

“Dean?”

“I am. I can barely bring myself to accept that you exist. I have no idea how you’re putting up with me.”

“What do you mean? I have no idea how _you’re_ putting up with _me_! The burden I must put on you, Dean, I am so sorry.”

The ghost looked so earnest, so apologetic, that Dean found it hard not to break out into semi-hysterical laughter again.

“No, dude, I’m sorry, I really am. I’m so selfish, it’s ridiculous. I keep thinking how this is all insane and maybe _I’m_ insane, and meanwhile you’re dealing with actual ghostification-“

“I don’t think that’s a word-“

“-and it’s all so fucked up, and I’m sorry I’m the one you got saddled with, I really am, and I’ve apologised so many times already but it doesn’t feel like enough. If I knew someone better to help you I’d send you to them, but I honest-to-God have no idea who else can see ghosts, or even if anyone can, and I have no idea why I can, or how long I might’ve been able to because I… I always had this thing, like, right in the back of my mind, when I was a kid… Overactive imagination, the shrinks told me, but…. Well, I think they may have been _wrong_.“

   He let his paintbrush drop onto the table beside him and cradled his head in his hands. Flashes of memory stirred up by the dead man were finally shaken loose and started coming back to him, overwhelming in their number and vibrancy.

 

_Twelve years old a woman all in white stares at him as he watches her go by from the back of the Impala; her eyes are wide and her finger is pointed accusingly at him as the car leaves her behind._

_Eight years old and a man in a suit and tie with blood all over his hands and face pleads with the child for help, but Dean runs crying to his mother about the scary man in the park, only to be told there is nobody there and to stop making up stories._

_Six years old and playing with a bald man in his bedroom, Sammy in the crib beside them. The man tells him he looks like his mother when she was little and vanishes when she comes in to check on them. When he describes his long-dead grandfather to an aghast Mary she goes white as a sheet and tells John, insisting that there was no way Dean could know what her dad looked like. John explains it away later that they must have let Dean see a photo of him at some point and he’s just playing. Mary buys it, perhaps out of her need to have an explanation, but Dean’s occasional stories of invisible people continue, eventually developing into drawings, and the habit continues well into his early teens._

_Disturbed by some of the more graphic depictions his parents send him to a child psychologist, just to be safe, and it is there that Dean is told that the stories he makes up about invisible people are very creative but they are imaginary. Invisible people don’t exist, he is told repeatedly. It’s not normal. It’s just an overactive imagination and, yes he should continue with his art because he is very good, but maybe he should try drawing pretty places instead of scary people for a change and…_

   “Oh God, I _saw things,_ Cas.” He looked up from his hands in horror. “When I was a kid, I remember now. I saw things that I’ve been trying to forget or explain away for years and I guess I can’t repress it anymore because it’s back, and I _remember_. I think I might’ve always been able to see them. Ghosts.” A sob escaped his throat. “Oh my god, what does that even mean?”

   He stared at Castiel so forlornly and so frightened that never before had the ghost wished so much that he could lay a hand on his shoulder to offer comfort, but he couldn’t and he didn’t. He was a prisoner in his own intangibility and all he had left to offer were his words. So that’s what he did.

“Dean, if what you’re saying is true, if you’ve always been able to see, ah, _ghosts_ , then that’s just a part of who you are. It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. People are born with all sorts of different gifts and talents but that doesn’t mean you have to act on them or be afraid of them. What you can do Dean, it’s good. Without you, I would still be lost. Afraid. Alone. What you’ve done for me already is so much more than I could have asked for, and I am truly, truly sorry to have caused you pain. I never wanted that, and it’s selfish of me to keep making this worse.”

   Dean tried to interrupt but Castiel held up a hand to stop him and continued his speech.

   “I know you’re trying to come to terms with this thing you can do, and I know it’s hard for you. I know you’re trying too because we’ve had this same conversation several times over now, but it’s obvious you aren’t dealing with this very well and it’s not fair to put you through any more. It was selfish of me to do this to you. It’s selfish to stay here any longer and make you suffer. You don’t owe me anything, and I won’t ask you to sacrifice your wellbeing to help me.”

“Cas, wait-“

“I’m sorry, Dean, I really am. I-“ He shook his head once as if clearing his thoughts and once more resumed his eye contact with the distressed psychic. When he speaks again his voice is quiet and almost goes unheard.

“Goodbye, Dean. And thank you for the picture.”  

With one last half-smile and his infinitely saddened ocean-blue eyes locked onto Dean’s, the ghost took a small step backwards, then another, then abruptly spun on his heel, raced straight through the wall and vanished, leaving a dazed and completely speechless Dean in his wake.

Dean stared at the wall Cas had sprinted through for some moments before turning to look blankly at the still-wet portrait of his suddenly departed housemate.

“But you didn’t even see it,” he whispered to himself, and allowed the full weight of what just happened to finally tip him over the edge from mildly upset to full-blown distraught.

It grew steadily darker around him until the only light came from the moon before Dean even managed to drag himself off up to bed where he laid silently staring up at the ceiling for several hours, appalled at how his actions had led to an outcome he didn’t want to happen. But by then it was too late. Castiel was gone to who knew where, and Dean was left behind; utterly alone, utterly confused, and utterly miserable.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaat, Cas POV? Naw, surely not. Surely YES. Love Cas POV. Should do it more, perhaps? Idk. Have chapter eleven. That's ten more chapters that I thought I'd do.

   Castiel had no idea where he was going. To be honest his plan hadn’t been thought through beyond “ _you have to_ _get out now_ ”, so that’s what he had done. He had said his goodbye and left as quickly as he could, without so much as a look back because, below his seemingly calm exterior, his heart was breaking.

He’d only known Dean for a few days but it had been more than enough for the first few tendrils of affection to dig deep into his heart and take root in every chamber. He hadn’t even noticed it happening but as he sprinted, then jogged, then eventually slowed to a trot towards the end of Dean’s street he realised that, unbeknownst to him, an attachment had been born when he hadn’t been looking. The painter was his friend. He was important to him. He was the only one in the world who was even trying to help him but it went beyond any sort of obligation his abilities demanded because, despite it being visibly difficult for him, Dean had continued to try.

And that only reinforced Castiel’s decision to leave.

It was too selfish to place such a burden on Dean, on his friend, when he was so clearly uncomfortable with all of this ghost stuff. It was selfish to expect, even unwittingly, that Dean should be able to come to terms with the existence of ghosts and mediums and all that that implied in just a few days, and it was selfish to remain there as a constant reminder of that. It was selfish to dredge up painful memories as he had done and even though it was unintentional it didn’t matter, because he had done it, and now Dean was hurting, and all he could do to lessen the hurt was leave, get as far away as possible and allow Dean’s life to go back to normal.

So that’s what he did. By the time he had stopped his tireless sprinting he was in a place he had never been before. Or, at least, not to his rather limited memory. He was still in Dean’s town as far as he could tell but he wasn’t sure where. He certainly wasn’t on that stretch of road he had first met Dean, that was obvious enough. Surrounding him were warehouses and what looked like an old railway station. Nothing looked new or even recently inhabited. But, strangely, it seemed familiar somehow.

He slowed his pace to a standstill and stared up at one of the old smokestacks looming in the dark. He frowned, uncertain, as ethereal wisps of memory teased him from the darkest corners of his fractured psyche and they taunted him, tormented him with the sensation of knowing, but they slipped from his grasp when he reached out for them. His mind was foggy still. The memories – or rather, suggestions of memory – receded back to wherever they had remained hidden and once more he was left confused and alone.

   He stood there bewildered for hours, simply staring with furrowed brows at the buildings that had raised his hopes so cruelly. It started to rain around him but of course that meant little to a man with no tangibility. He wanted to remember. Despite what he had said to Dean about being a different person now, he still wanted to remember. They were his memories after all and he wanted to know who he was.

He took a step forwards. Hesitated. Took three steps back. He didn’t know what he was doing. He was lost and confused, scared and alone, with no solid leads to follow on who he was or how he had ended up like this. Running out on Dean like that was starting to feel like the worst decision he had ever made.

But it was too late now. He had done it. And he couldn’t go back and force Dean to help him because it would also mean forcing Dean to embrace that other side of himself. That side of himself that, as it turned out, he had been supressing all his life. Castiel couldn’t disrupt the peaceful life Dean was trying to build for himself here; it wasn’t fair.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought with a wry smile and a bitter laugh as he thrust hands into pockets that were only real for him, _this is what’s meant to happen next. I guess this is the afterlife. No pearly gates or searing inferno, just carrying on. On my own. Invisible. Forever._

He scowled and tried to kick a stone but his shoe went straight through.

“Well this is just really, really awful.”

“You got that right.”

   It couldn’t be! That was a voice that he knew all too well. There was only one person that it could have belonged to but he couldn’t be here! Could he?

   Cas wheeled around, hardly daring to hope, and there stood a thoroughly sodden Dean grinning at him. His hair was plastered to his head. Water dripped from his nose and ran in torrents down his chin and onto his chest. He was foolishly only wearing a pair of faded jeans and a red t-shirt and both were soaked so that they clung tight to his skin. He looked soaked to his bones and Cas immediately exclaimed with both shock and worry.

“Dean! What are you doing? Why aren’t you wearing a jacket? Oh my God, you have to get home before you get sick.”

“You’re a real mother-hen, you know that, Cas?”

“Hey, I can’t get sick, you can. And I’m not going to let you catch something because of me.”

He started towards him, wringing his hands with worry, and then stopped suddenly as he remembered what had happened and what this might mean.

“Dean you…“ He faltered, hardly daring to hope what he was already starting to hope. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you, isn’t that obvious?”

“Well yeah, but-“

“Cas, dude. We’ve had this talk hundreds of times, ok, so after this one, no more. I want to help you. Ok? I. Want. To. Help.” He laughed and wiped rain from his eyes. “How many more times do I have to say it before you believe me, huh?”

“But… Isn’t this hard for you? I thought you didn’t want to see ghosts?”

“Well. Preferably, no. If I had the choice then I can’t say I wouldn’t choose not to but uh, I guess I can so... Well…”

   He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose right between eyes that he screwed up in a deep frown. He took a deep breath and continued to talk like this, using his free hand to gesture as he spoke.

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry I had that little… breakdown, thing, I guess. It was really selfish of me to compare my laughably minor problems to yours and I just-”

“What?” Cas interrupted, bring Dean up short. The painted blinked, dropped his hands and stared, mouth slightly open.

“I… what? What do you mean _what_?”

“You think you were being selfish? You think your problems don’t matter because they aren’t as big as mine? Dean, I’m sorry, but that’s ridiculous.”

“…What?”

“Your problems are yours Dean. Comparing them to mine aren’t going to lessen yours any and you are fully entitled to feel what you’re feeling. Yeah, I’m dead, big whoop. It sucks but at least it’s not hurting me in any way, not really. I’m not in any pain, I don’t have to deal with any regrets or missed loved ones-”

“Because you don’t remember-“

“-and honestly, it isn’t that bad. I’d rather not be dead, of course, but I am and all I want to do is deal with it. Get my memories back.” He stared wistfully back at the warehouse. “Find out who I am, I guess. But that doesn’t mean I want to impose on you. You’ve got a life to live and I’m getting in the way of that. I’ve already caused you unpleasant memories and I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

This time Dean was the one looking incredulous.

“You don’t want to hurt me? You’re not hurting me! If anything you’re helping me. I realised something, after you’d left. I realised that I’d been ignoring this huge part of me for my entire life because I didn’t want to face the fact that I was different. I… I was scared to be different, Cas. My parents thought I was broken or something and for a while so did I. So I buried it and ignored it and pretended like everything was ok.”

   He pushed back soaked locks of hair that had fallen dark and heavy with water into his eyes.

“I thought I was crazy when I first saw you,” he continued, chewing on his lip. “I thought I was losing my mind or something and I was terrified that if you were real then… Well. Anyway, when I actually met you I realised you weren’t scary or a hallucination or whatever, but a real person. _That’s_ what I supressed my entire life. _That’s_ what I could have known – _should_ have known – all along.” He allowed a small smile to grow on his face. “I should have known you were a person who needed my help and I should have been able to give you that. _That’s_ why I was selfish, Cas, because I was in a position to be the medium or psychic or whatever the hell I am that you needed and I turned my back on it.”

“But that’s your choice, Dean. You can go home and paint and forget all about this paranormal stuff. Your life goes on and I don’t want to cause you any more grief.”

“Buddy, that ship has sailed. I’m already emotionally invested. Sad, I know. But I meant what I said; I wanna help you. You know what else I realised when you dumped me?”

Cas looked puzzled.

“I didn’t dump-“

“I realised,” Dean said, louder than his ghostly companion, “that there’s no reason I can’t do both. Why not paint _and_ talk to the dead. Freaky, sure, but whatever. I want to help you because you’re my friend and I made you a promise, what like, five times over now? But I also meant what I said about not going into the business. No more ghosts. One is more than enough.”

“Ok,” Cas agreed. “No more ghosts. I haven’t actually seen any, you realise.”

“Me neither, but let’s keep it that way. No ghost raves in my house, you got it?”

“Uh… yes?”

“Atta boy.” He held out his hands and looked up at the sky. “Rain’s stopped,” he commented. “And I am absolutely soaked. That’s on you, man.”

Cas tried to argue but Dean just laughed it off and started walking to the car.

“C’mon, let’s go, before I really do catch a cold or something.”

The ghost followed shaking his head in exasperation, but silently he was pleased. He still felt a little guilty but it was dulled and for the first time he actually knew how much Dean cared for him as a person. He’d come looking for him and he still wanted to help. Not out of obligation, but because he was his friend. He _cared_.

As Cas surprised both Dean and himself by being able to climb into the waiting car, the warehouses and the sensation they had caused of just out of reach memories faded completely away. The buildings soon vanished from sight in the rear-view mirror as they sped home and all Cas could think was that now he knew for definite; he wasn’t alone anymore and this time it was for good.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blleeeeghh almost forgot to do this today. Well, there it is. Kind of really super dumb but there it is. I'm actually going to start moving the plot thing along soon? Who knows. Not this guy.

The drive back to Dean’s house was quiet. Dean seemed completely consumed by his own thoughts and even when he started to shiver in his soaked clothes he seemed oblivious to it. He just continued to stare ahead with the hint of a half-smile playing about his lips and a faraway look in his eyes, driving purely on autopilot. He didn’t speak except to murmur an agreement when Cas urged him to turn on the heating and even that seemed vague; a response instinctive rather than conscious.

 

   To be honest it didn’t bother the ghost much. He had other things on his mind and the silence was rather welcome. He’d noticed when they started moving that the car kept trying to leave him behind and was disappointed to reaffirm once more that, yes, he was still intangible to all objects and as a result was having to concentrate very hard to stay in his seat and not go flying out the back. As such, keeping up a conversation was the last thing on his mind. Not that he really had much to say anyway. Dean had already addressed many of his worries back at the warehouses and so the trip was quiet, sure, but not uncomfortably so.

 

  Rain continued to fall hard and heavy outside the car and drenched the world in silver. The wipers were on full, the headlights attempted to pierce the shower ahead of them, and the spray from cars in front made mist that doused them all the more. It was something to watch at least, the curtain of water falling incessantly from grey skies above, and required little thought which made it the perfect thing for Castiel to train his eyes on as he allowed the time to pass peacefully.

 

  After a while concentrating on staying in the car became second nature and it allowed Cas’ mind to wander some. In fact. Just as they were nearing the street Dean lived on Castiel suddenly spoke up and voiced something that he had been wondering since he had turned to see Dean standing in the rain behind him.

 

  “Hey, Dean?” The driver _hmmm’d_ a question which Cas took to mean continue. “How did you find me anyway? I was pretty far away; further than I thought, to be honest.”

 

  Dean hummed again in agreement, let his eyes flicker to the right to look at his passenger, and then back to stare at the waterlogged road. He shrugged a shoulder and slowed to take a corner more carefully.

 

  “Well, it wasn’t easy, let me tell you that,” he said. He spun the steering wheel with the heel of one hand and then allowed it to drift back to the centre when they straightened up. “I, uh… Well I took some time, maybe three or four hours, after you ran off to think and figured that this was dumb – _we were dumb_ – and I wasn’t going to let you run off God knows where to haunt some dreary alley or something for the rest of eternity. So I drove around for a while, y’know, _looking_ , but I couldn’t find you anywhere. I didn’t know where to look either or anything, because outside of my house and the high street I honestly don’t know where else you’d go. So I… Um….”

 

  He paused then for just a few seconds before clearing his throat and shaking his head ever so slightly: so slightly that Castiel almost missed it, distracted as he was. When Dean started talking again the silence that verged on becoming awkward dissipated and Cas soon forgot it had happened.

 

“Anyway. I found you. How in the hell did you end up there, though? I didn’t even know this town _had_ a warehouse district.”

 

  Cas huffed a soft laugh and clasped his hands in his lap. “Yeah, me neither,” he admitted, resuming his rain-watching out the passenger side window. “I guess I just… ran. I didn’t stop to think I just kept going.”

 

  “Well. That’s some impressive running.”

 

  “I guess.” The ghost turned back to Dean. His blue eyes squinted slightly as he recalled a momentary glimpse of lace and pink cushions and he cocked his head in confusion. It dawned on him what must have happened and if he could have blushed Dean was certain his face would be glowing cherry red.

 

  “Cas?”

 

  “I… I think I must have run through somebody’s house? I wasn’t really paying attention at the time, but I remember cushions and a rug and old white furniture, and well… I think I did.”

 

“You’re kidding? You’re not kidding, oh my God, Cas that’s…” Dean shook his head and barely managed to supress spasms of laughter that rippled through his whole body. “Oh man, that’s funny.”

 

“No it isn’t. I can’t believe I did that, I broke into a person’s house.”

 

“Well, people can’t see you so I guess it’s not really breaking and entering if you’re on the astral plane.”

 

They pulled into the driveway and Dean killed the engine. The rain still hammered down on the top of the car but it was lighter by this point, not the torrent from before. Still, it was dark and though Dean was dry now he was still shivering slightly and covered a yawn with the back of his hand. He opened the door and went to climb out but stopped when Cas tried to put a halting hand on his arm. It passed through and the skin prickled as thought he had been touched by a sudden frost.

 

“Dean… How did you find me? I was on the other side of town in a place you would never think to check. You said so yourself, you didn’t even know that place existed. So how did you find me so quickly?” He took in Dean’s expression and raised his hands as placating as he could. “I’m just wondering. You don’t have to answer but I thought…”

 

“What did you think?” Dean had one leg out of the car. His jeans were turning dark with water and he stared unblinkingly out of the windshield. “What did you think, Cas?” His voice was low, almost a whisper and when he turned to look at the ghost his eyes betrayed the anxiety he was feeling.

 

“I… I thought that, maybe, you’d gotten help.” Dean sighed heavily and pulled his leg back in the car. He shut the door gently but it creaked all the same. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over at his passenger, who treated him to what he was recognising as a trademark squint. They looked at each other in silence for a while, the rain the only sound, until it broke all of a sudden, and they were left with no further distractions.

 

Finally, Dean spoke.

 

   “Yeah. I did. I got help. I was driving down a street I’d never been down before a couple of hours into looking for you. The window was rolled down and it was just starting to rain and I was worried, you know. It’s ridiculous because, honestly, what could happen to you; you couldn’t have gotten sick or mugged or whatever, but I was still worried. Anyway I was calling out your name and losing hope when this woman flagged me down…”

 

He scrunched up his eyes and barked out a single laugh totally devoid of humour.

 

   “So I stopped. I asked her if she’d seen a guy, young, dark hair go through that way and she just stared at me, so I asked again and she nodded and pointed to where I eventually caught up with you. But when she turned back….”

 

   He turned and met Castiel’s quizzical blue eyes with his worried green ones and his voice grew quiet.

 

“She was like you, Cas, but not. I didn’t even realise until she turned back but when she did she was… Oh man, she was so messed up. Blood… everywhere. Her eyes bulged and she tried to speak but it just came out as this hideous _gurgle_ and I was so scared and so horrified that I just floored it. And I left her there, staring after me with all that blood and her eyes so wide and, oh _God_. She terrified me, Cas. I’ve never been scared of you, but she terrified me.” He dropped his head into his hands as Cas looked on, speechless. Eventually he found his voice.

 

“So before… When you said you’d never seen any… any people like me… You were lying?”

 

“No! Well, yeah, technically, but not on purpose! To be honest, Cas, I didn’t want to believe I’d seen her. I didn’t want to remember that I’d left her, especially after I planned out that whole stupid spiel about wanting to help you, and I didn’t want to remember how scared she made me. Shit. I feel like the world’s worst person. I left her there. Alone. On the side of the street, drenched in blood, and then I come and tell you I don’t mind talking to ghosts so I can get you to come home and oh God, I feel like such a fucking hypocrite.” He laughed, bitterly. “And I said no more dumb speeches! Couldn’t even keep that promise.”

 

Cas watched him for a moment as he groaned and buried his head all the more deeply in his hands.

 

“It’s ok.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s ok, Dean. I get it. Look, you already told me you don’t want to do this, this, _psychic_ thing you can do. So you left a ghost behind. So what?” He shrugged and tilted his head. “All I’m saying is this is your life and these are your choices to make. You have no obligation to that woman. Hell, you have no obligations to me but I guess we’re friends now, somehow, and if you want to help then that’s fantastic, really, and I am very grateful for that. But that doesn’t mean you have to help every other spirit you come across. Especially if they creep you out! You shouldn’t have to do things that make you uncomfortable or scare you.”

 

“Huh. Yeah. Thanks, Cas. I uh… I’m sorry I kind of lied to you? I didn’t want to freak you out. Not any more than you already were and, well, I was ashamed, I guess. Of what I did. How I handled it.”

 

“It’s ok. She sounds… frightening. Alarming, at least.” He crossed his arms and looked thoughtful. “I wonder why she looked like that.”

“I have no idea. I didn’t think at the time but seeing you again makes me wonder. I mean, you look so normal, just like any guy on the street. But this woman was…. Cas, her face was completely torn up. And her throat was shredded, my God it was awful.”

 

“She sounds like she looks like how she died.”

 

“Well then, why don’t you? If you did then at least we’d have some sort of clue as to how you kicked it.”

 

“There’s nothing?”

 

“No. Like I said; any guy on the street. No cuts, no bruises, nothing.”

 

“Hmm. That’s strange.”

 

“You’re telling me. If you had a gunshot wound to the chest or something maybe I wouldn’t have screamed like a kid and ran away from that lady back there. I’d be used to it, you know?”

 

Cas pulled a face but quickly masked it when he noticed Dean’s own face drop.

 

“Ah! Oh, man, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting this is all much realer for you. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s fine Dean. To be fair, a gunshot would make everything a whole lot easier. At least we’d know for definite how I, uh, _kicked it_.” He raised an eyebrow at Dean and smiled as he winced. “It’d be nice to know, is all,” he finished before shrugging, smiling gently, and tilting his head towards the house. “Are we going to sit here all night or what? You’re still shivering. You should really take a shower and go to bed.”

 

“Yeah, good plan.” Dean swung the door open once again and climbed out into the now still night. Cas didn’t bother waiting for his door to be opened, instead opting to swinging his legs out to the right, straight through the door, and standing just as Dean rounded the back of the vehicle.

 

   “That was weird,” was all he said before walking to the front door to let himself in. This time Cas did wait and followed him in, allowing himself to float gently upwards as he crossed the threshold until he reclined just a few feet off the ground in the living room. He stretched his whole body out, crossed his legs and then folded his arms behind his head in a rudimentary cushion.

 

   Meanwhile Dean began climbing the staircase and, looking over at the hovering ghost, lifted a hand off the railing and bid him goodnight. Cas returned the sentiment and then closed his eyes.

 

   He was comfortable like this, he realised, and as the shower fsssssshed on and then off, somewhere up on the second floor he heard bedsprings coil as Dean fell into bed and knew that he too was comfortable. Scared, sure, and probably still a little nervous, but comfortable enough to let him come back here, and that was more than enough, Cas thought, as he settled in for a long night of light dozing whilst his mind ticked through whatever lazy thought might deign to cross it.

 

   He was still curious about the other ghost but that was a conversation for morning: let Dean sleep now, let him rest and forget for a few hours. And then, when the sun was bright and the world less huge and terrifying, then they would speak and maybe, just maybe, they could start to figure all this ghost stuff, and everything that went with it, out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. There we go. I made a decision and that decision is sappy, ew gross, affection.

   The next few days passed with ease and the two unlikely housemates became closer than ever, bonded over their shared worry and dedication to dealing with it, come what may. The morning after Dean had brought Castiel home, for example, he had been blearily brewing his morning coffee when Cas floated into the kitchen almost on the verge of tears. Dean had turned to greet him only to be met with the ghost covering his mouth, eyes wide and somehow watery, and had nearly dropped the full mug then and there.

Sensing Dean’s shock the ghost had dropped his hands to reveal a wide almost blubbering smile the likes of which Dean had never seen on his friend’s face before; it was totally at odds with his usual calm demeanour and for that reason it only served to confuse him more.

“Woah, woah, woah Cas! What’s the matter,” he had asked, setting the mug down as his eyebrows lifted and his eyed widened with palpable concern. “What happened?”

Castiel laughed through his sniffing and wiped his implausibly damp eyes with the cuff of his shirt. He shook his head and allowed his smile to grow even wider.

“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter, I just- Oh, Dean, it’s incredible. _Thank you_.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“The _painting_. It’s incredible. Do I really look like that?”

   The clouds parted, the lightbulb flickered on and everything clarified in an instant.

“Oh!” Dean smacked himself in the head with the heel of his hand – hurting himself in the process but he wasn’t about to admit that – and rubbed the spot absently as he considered his portrait. “Huh. Wow, I forgot all about that thing. I guess you liked it, then?”

“I love it. It doesn’t look anything like my missing photo though, the one on the news. My hair is more dishevelled in yours. And you painted me with stubble?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t feel any. Although, come to think of it, I can’t really feel anything, so I suppose there’s no surprise there.”

Dean moved to sit at the kitchen table and nursed his coffee, allowing the heat to seep into his sleep-numbed fingers. He appraised the ghost and shrugged one shoulder.

“You definitely have stubble.” He sipped his coffee and burnt the tip of his tongue. “Ow, fuck! Shit. Ah, sorry. Yeah, it’s definitely there. Maybe, oh I don’t know, haven’t shaved in a day stubble? I’m not sure, you have very dark hair.”

“Almost black, from the looks of it. That’s interesting, I didn’t think it was that dark.”

“Well, some of that was artistic choice; your hair is more of a really dark brown, but I sort of maybe exaggerated it. Just slightly.” He winced. “I hope you don’t mind?”

Castiel just smiled and shook his head. He moved to hover awkwardly by the table and Dean kicked out a chair for him, purely through force of habit, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. Cas immediately “sat down” with him and they enjoyed the rest of the morning like that, together, as though they were really roommates, and spent most of the morning casually discussing whatever came to mind.

The portrait didn’t come up again but every so often Dean caught Cas sneaking fond little glances into his art room and a burst of pride warmed his heart whenever he did.

Eventually, Dean managed to make it upstairs to dress and, as he was pulling on an old Metallica t-shirt and leaving the room, he suddenly had a thought. He stopped outside the door that belonged to the generously named “guest bedroom” and stood there for a moment, arms folded and tapped a finger thoughtfully against his cheek. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of this before!?

He opened the door, had a quick look in, and shut it again. Then, moving as quietly as possible, he crept downstairs and up behind Cas who was busy floating above the newspaper Dean had left open for him.

“Cas!”

The ghost yelped, clutched at his shirt and turned, fixing Dean with a shocked, wordless glare. He sighed, dropped his hand and frowned.

“ _Dean_! You almost gave me a heart attack.” His voice wasn’t angry, but there was a touch of annoyance in it which Dean took to mean he was pissed that he, the ghost, had been startled by Dean, the living guy. “What was that all about?”

“Payback. For the first time we met. You scared me, I scared you. We’re square.”

“That’s childish.” He squinted at the painter and made a mental note. “You’re childish.”

“Have been known to be. Anyway, that’s not important--“

“I beg to differ…”

“-- _because_ ,” he said, raising his voice, “I’ve made a decision.”

The ghost’s squint deepened and was joined by his old friends, the furrowed eyebrows. He tilted his head and began to form a question but Dean merely lifted a halting finger.

“Ah, ah, ah. This decision, as you may have guessed, is regarding you. We’re practically living together now--“

“An odd choice of words.”

“—and as such, I figured you should have your own room! The box room is empty and I only really wanted it in case my brother comes to visit, but I figure, there’s no point having the guy haunting me full-time not using it so, ta daa! You’ve got your own room!”

“But I’m dead.”

“Yeah, I haven’t forgotten.”

“So I don’t sleep. Why would I need a bedroom? Honestly Dean, I’m fine staying down here, it’s really no bother…”

Dean’s finger was back, but this time it offered a warning.

“Dude, you’re living here – no comment this time – and I’d feel better if you had your own space, you know? Even if you can’t sleep. At least then you’re not lingering down here like a weird insubstantial pet or something. You’re a person, you get a room.”

“No, really, it’s fine.”

“Cas, I don’t take rent from you, so the least you’re gonna do is follow me on this. You’re moving into the room. Deal with it.”

Any further protests fell on wilfully deaf ears. Cas floated a few steps behind Dean waving his hands and explaining all the reasons he was fine with the living room, _honest_ , but Dean just whistled a happy tune and ignored him. He told Cas firmly that he had to stay downstairs until he called and set about preparing the room for its new resident.

   New sheets went on the bed, despite not really needing them, and he threw open the window to let some air in. He spent some time shifting the many unopened boxes he had thrown in there for storage and, as a final touch, moved Cas’ portrait upstairs and set it on the worn dresser in the place of a mirror. He even put the small TV he had in his bedroom in there, figuring Cas could watch it through the night as he slept to keep himself occupied.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he called Cas who, predictably, forgot all his protests the moment he stepped in and saw what Dean had done for him.

“Oh! My picture!”

“Yeah, so you always know what you look like, first thing. And there’s the TV. I can put on whatever channel you like before I go to bed, if you want. Or I can put a movie on? Or the radio! Oh, I don’t think I have a radio…. I’ll get you a radio! Oh, and maybe some—“

“This is great. Thank you Dean. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, honestly. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and what if your brother comes to visit?”

“Then he’s on the couch.”

“Dean…” Cas looked uncertain still and Dean could only chuckle at the expression on his face.

“Cas, man, it’s _fine_. I felt weird you not having a room here and I wanted you to have a space to call yours; at least until we figure some of this shit out, ok?”

The uncertainty on the ghost’s face broke then and melted away. In its place grew a grateful smile, not unlike the one he had been treated to several days ago; a smile so radiant it made him beam in return. It was a smile that said all the things Cas couldn’t and lifted Dean up in a way he had never been lifted before. It was like all his concerns, all his life-long fears were gone, erased by that one, golden smile, and he felt happy. He felt precious. He felt… loved.

   A few beats of his heart and then it dawned on him that he was grinning dopily at Castiel and a burning blush ignited in his cheeks. He hurridly cleared his throat in a way that was not at all convincing. He started walking backwards out of the room and avoided looking Cas directly in the eyes, making babbling excuses about having to go make lunch, and Cas should be left alone to settle in.

   He missed it, but the uncertainty was back on the phantom’s face, but Dean was too busy tripping over himself getting out into the hallway. Cas didn’t know what had just happened but the sound of Dean practically running downstairs alarmed him. Dean, on the other hand, reached the kitchen and sunk into the chair Cas had pretended to occupy earlier.

   “Shit,” he whispered, resting his head on folded arms and closing his eyes so tight fireworks flew. “I’m falling for a ghost.”


	14. Chapter 14

Dean had never intended for anything like this to happen. The fact that it _was_ happening was mindboggling, but despite it being unsolicited, he couldn’t deny that the warmth growing in his chest wasn’t at all unwelcome. He had never truly paid attention to the happiness he felt whenever the ghost was around. To be honest, upon finally accepting Castiel’s presence he had thought the company was all he wanted: a friend in an unfamiliar town. He had never considered that he might…. Might fall in…

But no. No, that was impossible. And yet….

He wasn’t certain when he had started feeling so bound to the ghost; perhaps when he was capturing his image in paint and canvas, or perhaps it was when he had ran away, leaving him behind with a dull ache in his heart that he had at the time attributed to the guilt of broken promises and the sudden loneliness Cas’ absence left behind.

“Shit…” he groaned. The expletive was soft, more a sigh than a curse, and Dean rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands as he straightened. Castiel was still upstairs and the kitchen was empty except for him. Good. He needed his space.

An image of searching blue eyes and full lips popped into his head and he groaned anew. What was he supposed to do now? Go up there and tell the dead man he had a crush on him? This was absurd. Absurd! And to be honest, just one more thing he didn’t want to have to deal with.

He sat back in his chair and stretched, glancing out the window as he did. The light was soft out there and birds littered his lawn looking for insects to eat. They would be gone soon. Winter was on its way and nearly all the leaves had fallen already leaving the trees skeletal and bare. He didn’t like to look at them and a shadow fell across the room as clouds blocked out the sun.

His thoughts again swam back to Castiel and he found himself torn. The idea of the man made him light up inside. His mannerisms, quirks, his earnest way of speaking and self-sacrificing nature all mingled together with his shining eyes, his hesitant but warm smile and his soft, gravelly voice to produce a man who, in any other circumstance, Dean would have fallen head over heels for days ago, and willingly.

But this was different. Cas was dead. He was dead and obviously traumatised despite his protests otherwise and this…. This could not happen.

He would not pursue this. He made that decision, still sat at the kitchen table, with determination and no small amount of willpower though his heart screamed for him to give in, to go for it, to listen to what he was feeling.

But no. It was not fair, he reasoned, to complicate matters further. Castiel was dead, and Dean was not. He was dead and knew not how or when or where and Dean had promised to help him discover the answers to those questions and this... this _schoolboy_ crush would not get in the way of that.

He owed him more than that. Besides, the ghost betrayed no implication as to returning his affections and that was good, Dean had to tell himself. It stung, but it was good. In time the hollow ache he could already feel consuming the warmth would fade and he could move on, unfettered by the unwise love for a dead man he was already trying to reject.

 _This is for the best_ , he told himself over and over until it became a mantra. His foot tapped nervously in time with it. _This is for the best. It’s not fair, but it’s for the best_.

After all, what future could they possibly have? They couldn’t touch. Cas would never age with him and would stay frozen as he was, visible only to him. They could never get married or raise a family together. They could never exchange lazy morning kisses or share a bed long into the afternoon, sheets warmed by their bodies as they lay entwined together and just talked. They couldn’t even touch. They would never become intimate though Dean suspected Cas wouldn’t be too interested in that anyway. Hell, they couldn’t even _hold hands_.

The whole thing was foolish and Dean resolved to put it out of mind. Dwelling on what could have and could not be would do neither him nor his houseguest any good and he had made a promise to help.

So that’s what he decided he must do.

He left the kitchen and settling into his armchair, booting up his laptop an switching on the TV as it whirred to life. He flicked through several stations looking for anything, any suggestion of-

There! There was that photo of Cas again, plastered across the screen. The reporter in the background filled in the details again but it was nothing new so Dean ignored him. He drew his legs up under him, focusing on the man on the screen. The living man. The man he had never known and would never know. He wondered how this Castiel had differed from his Cas. The look he was giving the photographer at least was one he had never seen on the ghost’s face and he was suddenly stricken with the realisation of what Cas must have felt like seeing it for the first time.

   It must have been unnerving to see a photo he didn’t remember of a man he only shared a name and a face with all the while knowing that this was who he was supposed to be, but wasn’t. Dean didn’t know why Cas had no memories of his life, and the ghost himself certainly didn’t, but he was sure that it wasn’t supposed to be that way. It couldn’t be. That would be too cruel, he thought, to die and lose who you were in an instant; to die and try to grasp your identity just to have it escape like smoke through a net. A whole new surge of sympathy rolled through him as he gained a deeper understanding for the man upstairs though he tried to keep the pity needling at him at bay. He didn’t think the ghost would want his pity – he certainly wouldn’t if the roles were reversed.

The picture of Cas shrunk and the news went back to the studio. They made obligatory comments on how they hoped he would be found safe soon and moved onto the next story. Dean couldn’t help but smile wryly. They all knew that at this point Cas would not be found alive, though of course it was only the two of them in this house that knew without a doubt he was dead. He would not be found safe and he would not be going back to his family or the job his clothes implied.

But he might be able to move on and that was what Dean intended to do for him. He’d seen ghost films after all, that was what was supposed to happen, right? The psychic helps the ghost finish their unfinished business, the ghost finds peace and then there’s a white light blah blah blah, problem solved?

Dean flicked off the TV and pondered on that for a moment. A white light. Was that what he was gunning for? Was getting Cas to move on his endgame? He didn’t know. He’d never done this before and had no idea what he was supposed to do. He didn’t even know how he was supposed to go about helping Cas to cross over or go into the light or pass through the pearly gates or whatever the hell came next for him. He didn’t have a clue but he wasn’t about to let the ghost know that.

   He sighed and started searching through the many articles that had popped up about Castiel’s disappearance in the weeks since. He’d read most of them before but one or two were new and seemed promising. One mentioned he had worked as an accountant in a local small business and suddenly the white shirt/black trousers made sense. He couldn’t help smirking at that cliché but the smile was quickly wiped off his face as he scrolled down and read the final paragraph of the article.

 _Castiel Novak_ , it said, _was last seen leaving work at 5pm heading in the direction of his home. The co-workers we have interviewed said this was normal for him. “He always walked home alone,” says fellow accountant Alfie – last name rescinded – “so we never thought much of it. But when he didn’t turn up for work the next day…. Well. Castiel was never late, and I only remember one or two sick days in all the time he was here so we knew immediately that something was wrong. We all hope he’s found soon. He’s a good guy.” After work, Mr Novak is known to have met with his sister, Anna, as a local bar, but unfortunately, we have no further witnesses after he left. As of now he has been missing a total of twenty-two days. Though his family hold out hope he will be found safely it is getting increasingly hard for many to believe that he may still be alive out there. Our prayers go out to his loved ones._

Dean read it and read it again. It was strange to think of the man he knew as having a whole life before all this, with co-workers who knew his habits and spoke of him with affection. He knew that if Cas were reading this now he’d read the name Alfie and have no face to accompany it, no physical description or memory of how he laughed or liked his coffee. He’d read the kind words this guy had said but they wouldn’t be about him, not really. Dean didn’t want to see the guilt he knew would blossom on Cas’ face as he realised he didn’t know who this man was anymore and he certainly didn’t want to cause him any more discomfort or sadness so he X’d out of the window.

He spent another half an hour browsing through articles but they all said the same thing – still missing, no new witnesses, nothing, nothing, nothing. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the Earth, one article said, and Dean was inclined to agree. He didn’t know what to do next. The news was a bust and the internet was a bust.

   How was he supposed to help Cas move on if they had nothing to go on? Hell, even knowing where his body was would be a good start but it didn’t look like the police had been able to find it yet so what was he supposed to do now?

He snapped his laptop shut and put it back on the sideboard. It was looking more and more like they’d have to think outside the box but he didn’t know _how_. The police had found nothing, the internet knew nothing, Cas didn’t want to go see the family he didn’t remember and, to be honest, neither did Dean. He was sure that introducing himself as the man who was living with their dead brother would get him nothing more than a punch in the gut and possibly a black eye for his trouble. From her pictures Cas’ sister looked like she could deliver a mean right hook and he wasn’t stupid enough to go looking for that.

Dean pushed himself up and went looking for Cas. He found him still in his new room, standing exactly where he’d left him, just staring out of the window. He glanced over his shoulder when Dean knocked on the doorframe and nodded when he asked if he could come in.

“It looks nice outside,” he said as way of greeting and turned back to the window. Dean crossed the room to stand by him and, eyebrow raised, humoured him by glancing outside too.

“It looks… ok? Kind of windy, but ok. Autumn’s nearly over so it’ll be getting cold soon. Have you been standing here this whole time?”

“Mm hmm. I’ve been watching the leaves fall, and there were some kids playing in puddles.”

“Ok.” Dean glanced sideways. The ghost wore a serene expression and a slight smile as he drank in the outside world. “Cas?” The ghost mm hmm’d again. “Do you want to go out?”

Now Cas turned to him and tilted his head.

“Why?” he asked and raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind going into town. I was going to see about some local art shows or something and I might get a new palette knife. Anyway, do you wanna go?”

The ghost merely looked at him, eyebrow still raised.

“I mean, I’d go stir crazy if I were stuck here all the time. And you’ve never gone out with me yet so, I dunno, do you want to?”

“You wouldn’t be able to talk to me if we did,” said Castiel, but he looked amused. “People would think you were talking to yourself.”

“Well, I can pretend I’m talking on the phone or something. Or I’ll wait until nobody is around. It’s kind of gross out, so most people will be inside.”

That seemed enough. Cas allowed his smile to grow and nodded happily.

“Yeah,” he said, “let’s go out. I’d like that.”

Dean had to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to like Cas in that way anymore but the glow he was radiating made it hard to supress the butterflies that danced in his stomach. He tried to ignore them but they seemed to be multiplying. Fuck.

“I’ll uh, just go get dressed properly,” he said and went to pull his old boots on and a warm jacket. The ghost met him at the front door and he felt stupid standing bundled up next to a guy wearing just a shirt. Cas seemed to notice because he laughed quietly and tugged on his tie.

“Do you think I’m underdressed?” he asked and laughed when Dean had to add a pair of gloves to his ensemble. “Really, Dean,” he continued, “I think I’ll catch my death out there.”

“Oh, now he’s a comedian.” But his words were tinged with mirth and they were both chuckling as they walked to the Impala, trading jokes back and forth they wouldn’t have dreamed of making just a few days ago. Castiel seemed to be more at ease with his, uh, _condition_ , Dean noticed, and was glad. If he had come to terms with it, even slightly, then maybe they could finally make some progress and get him sorted out. It was promising and as they drove into town Dean got the feeling that, finally, they might actually be able to do something about all this.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh shit, stuff is FINALLY HAPPENING, hot damn.  
> It gets a little gross at the end. Fair warning.

   Together they explored the streets of the town the pair now called home. Dean was right: it was damp, a chill had set in and not many other pedestrians occupied the streets leaving them to, for the most part, be able to talk freely.

Dean walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets and zipped his jacket up to his chin. Watching his companion float alongside and sometimes above him in nothing but a shirt made him shiver all the more but he didn’t mention it. Instead he distracted himself from the foul weather by trying to keep up a rapport about each of the shops they were passing.

“Another record store,” Dean muttered as they passed the fourth in as many minutes. “How many does one place need? And who the hell is buying them all? I don’t even own a record player.”

“Maybe you should invest in one,” supplied Cas as he floated over to peer through the glass. He seemed particularly taken with an old The Cure record and reached through the glass to touch it, not minding that he couldn’t.

“Nah. I’ve got YouTube, why would I want a scratchy old vinyl?”

Cas didn’t answer but was smiling absentmindedly when he drifted back over to him. He rolled onto his back and crossed his legs and continued to keep pace with Dean even as he reclined. He passed through a parking meter but barely paid it any notice.

 _He’s certainly embracing ghosthood_ thought Dean as Cas continued to bear no notice to where he was going. Then Cas was speaking again and the thought was dropped.

“Where are we going?” he was asking and Dean shrugged one shoulder in reply.

“Nowhere in particular.” He scratched his cheek somewhat unsatisfactorily with his gloved finger and pondered on that for a moment. “Actually,” he said, slowly, “I’d like to check in at Jims – that art shop,” he explained when Cas gave him a quizzical look. “Like I said I need to find out about local shows or galleries. My savings are drying up and we have bills coming up soon.”

He didn’t think much of it as he was speaking but Cas suddenly looked guilty.

“What?”

“Well, I feel bad,” the ghost said, spreading his palms. “I’m basically freeloading off of you and I can’t even pay you back for it.”

Dean looked incredulous. “Cas,” he said, “I don’t expect _money_ off of you.”

“Well no, I know that, but still…”

“Consider the company payment enough.”

Castiel didn’t reply but when Dean shot him a furtive, measuring glance he saw that the ghost seemed to look quietly pleased. They continued on in amicable silence and occasionally paused to glance into an interesting window. When they rounded the corner at the end of the street Dean’s face lit up and he started to comment on the architecture of one of the buildings across the road. He excitement was cut short when Cas suddenly hissed his name. He turned, startled, and saw the ghost wide-eyed and holding a finger against his lips.

“What’s-?“ He started to question what was happening, but then out the corner of his eye he saw what had caused his friend’s worried expression. He immediately pretended to stifle a coughing fit but it proved to be in vain. The two women walking towards him hand in hand barely paid him any notice and passed without a second glance. To be safe Dean remained silent until they were out of earshot. Then the couple rounded the corner and were gone and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

“That was close,” he said and seemed to be unfazed, but the nervousness of his laugh gave him away.

Castiel now returned to him. He had followed the couple back to the bend in the road to make sure they were gone and, satisfied, drifted back to where Dean was leaning against a wall. He crossed his arms and the worried look he had donned earlier didn’t seem to be dissipating.

“We need to be more careful,” he said as his frown only deepened. “We can’t risk you getting caught out like that. What happened to the phone plan?”

Dean looked sheepish. “I didn’t think we’d need it,” he admitted, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I was wrong.”

Cas didn’t look impressed. “Well, perhaps it’s best if you don’t talk to me at all in public anymore – at least not without your phone,” he added, when Dean started to protest. “You’re still doing it, right now. Either pretend to be calling someone or ignore me until we get somewhere private, ok?”

Dean made a small _tsk_ noise as he retrieved his phone from his pocket. He placed it against his ear, raised his eyebrows, and pointedly looked dead ahead so as to ignore the ghost standing on his left. Said ghost rolled his eyes at the theatrics.

“Is that better? Good. Glad we have a system.” Dean resumed walking and Castiel trailed after him. He didn’t comment on the psychic’s flair for the dramatic. He couldn’t complain because at least Dean was playing along, and he’d much rather he suffered a slight aggravation than be mistaken for talking to himself in the street and be carted off God knows where.

They soon picked up an easy conversation again and the two were able to comfortably pass a few pedestrians with no more scares. Dean didn’t say anything and neither did Cas, they simply carried on.

Eventually they reached the street in which they had first met. No longer did it scare Dean; rather, now it was the place that had caused him to meet the best friend he had ever had. He stopped himself from thinking any further. Best friends. That could be enough.

   When they reached Jim’s the two broke apart and went their separate ways. Dean ventured over to speak with the owner and Cas, intrigued by the various types of paints, pens and brushes the place had to offer, explored the store. The place was big and he soon lost himself in one the many aisles, taking particular interest in a rainbow wall composed entirely of tubes of oils where he lingered for some time to stare in astonishment at the vast display of hues.

   Dean, well aware that to the proprietor it had appeared that he had entered alone, had to physically stop himself from being too obvious in watching where the ghost had gone. But as he leaned against the counter to speak with Jim his eyes surveyed the store and had to hide the concern he felt when Cas drifted out of sight. He was worried when the ghost disappeared but wasn’t sure why. But then in a flash of realisation he figured it out and he had to duck his head to try to conceal the rising blush that threatened to give him away.

 

   He didn’t want to let Cas out of his sight because he didn’t want to lose him again and the thought was so absurd, so unimaginably childish, that Dean was embarrassed for himself to even be thinking it. Cas was a _grown man_ , and perfectly capable of exploring a simple art shop on his own. Not to mention he was dead already so, really, what more could possibly happen to him?

 

  “…Mr Winchester?”

 

  Dean came back to himself with a jolt and the blush burning his cheeks threatened to sear itself into his skin permanently when he realised he hadn’t been paying attention to a thing Jim had been saying. He willed the heat away, cleared his throat, and turned back to the man who was watching him with expectance in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was miles away.”

 

Jim only chuckled and resumed speaking but Dean couldn’t help continuing to keep watch out the corner of his eye. He made more of an effort to listen this time but his concentration was divided. He couldn’t see Cas. He wondered what the ghost was up to. He was just starting to hope Jim would wrap up soon so he could go find him when the shop owner said something that caught his full attention.

 

“… we’d be happy to have you.”

Dean blinked, once, twice, and gaped.

“I’m… sorry?”

 

“I said,” Jim repeated and now he was starting to look concerned, “that we’re hosting a show in a few weeks and we’d be happy to have you.”

 

“Oh. Oh! You’re kidding, that would be great!” The worry on Jim’s face seemed to ease and he returned the smile the young artist was directing his way.

 

“’Course, I’d like to see some of your stuff first, but I’m pretty confident you’d be more that qualified. It’s just a small, local show. Nothin’ fancy. But if you’re interested-“

 

“Yes! Yes I am, that would be great! I can maybe email you a portfolio or something? I don’t have too much at the moment but I can definitely get some more done in time. A few weeks you said?“

 

“Two weeks from next Saturday,” Jim said, “and yeah, lemme just…” He rummaged around for a business card, flipped it, and scrawled something on the back. He handed it to Dean. “There. You email me a couple pictures and I’ll give you the go ahead. I’ll even value a couple if you’d like, in case you don’t know what to ask for them. Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he said as Dean tried to thank him. He rested his arms on the counter and waved a hand as if to dismiss him. “Now go find whoever it is you’re looking out for, kid.”

 

The blush was back and Dean tried to stutter a reply – either a protest or an explanation, he wasn’t exactly sure which – but Jim just chuckled and shook his head. “Wasn’t born yesterday, son, I know you can’t wait to get out of here. Go find your, what, date?”

 

“He’s not my date!” Jim raised an eyebrow. The blush was burning, searing, and the words had come out louder than he had intended. Dean inhaled and it hissed though his teeth. He tried again, clutching the card in hands that turned to claws, and this time managed a quieter, more measured tone. “I mean, he’s not… we’re not… I don’t think he likes me like that. And anyway I couldn’t ever… Ugh, it’s complicated.”

 

“Hmm. Well, whatever the case, he seems real important to you. Go find him, and don’t forget to email me those pictures.”

 

“I uh…. Ok. I won’t. Thanks.”

 

Dean slipped the card into his pocket, shot Jim one last uncertain half-smile and walked away. He reached the first aisle and pulled out his phone which, after pretending to type numbers into, he pressed against his ear.

 

“Cas? Cas, man, where are you?” He scanned the shop and wondered what he’d do if he had to go looking for him. Jim might find that weird. He was just about to make a move when Cas walked through the shelves a little ways in front of him wearing a huge grin. He started to speak but Dean shook his head, almost imperceptably, and moved towards the door.      

“Outside? OK, meet you there.” He raised a hand to Jim, who returned it with a knowing look, and slipped out the door. They walked away from the shop side by side, but Dean didn’t look at the ghost. He was acutely aware that Jim could see him through the glass if he so wished and didn’t want to explain why his “date” was invisible the next time he saw him.

When they were definitely well out of sight Dean turned to Cas and exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

 

“Man, that was hard,” he said. “Hi, by the way. Sorry. Pretending you aren’t there is harder than I thought it would be.”

 

“It’s ok. Did your talk go well?”

 

“You… didn’t hear?”

 

Cas shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t want to eavesdrop,” he said.

 

“Oh. Well, yeah, it went ok. I got invited to a show – hopefully I can sell a couple paintings, you know, get my name out there.”

 

“That’s great!” They rounded the corner and Dean shifted the phone in his hand.

 

“Yeah, it’s a start. What were you doing back there?”

 

“Exploring. I don’t think I was the artistic type when I was alive because everything in there seemed strange to me. But it was interesting too! There were these little, uh, trowel things?”

 

“Palette knives. I don’t use them much, but I have a couple.”

 

“Palette knives. Huh. You know I… I wish…”

 

The ghost ground to a halt so suddenly that Dean continued a few steps without him. Dean realised what had happened and stopped to look back at him. The ghost looked embarrassed and shuffled his feet awkwardly. He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

 

“Cas? What do you wish?”

 

“Well, I wish I had something like you do. I don’t get the impression I had any interesting hobbies, and certainly none that I could continue now. I can’t even touch things.”

 

“But didn’t you move my paintbrush that one time?” Cas shrugged one shoulder, and Dean took that to be confirmation. “Well then, if you can do that, why couldn’t you take something up? Drawing or a musical instrument or _something_.”

 

“I only moved it that one time. I’ve tried since and I can’t but I don’t know why.”

 

“Huh. Maybe it’s like Swayze? You know, you need emotion or something to make it work? How’d you do it the first time?”

 

“Well, I guess I was frustrated, and, uh, upset… You couldn’t see me again and I just wanted to do something to _make_ you notice me. So I moved the brush.”

 

Dean felt a familiar pang of guilt but pushed past it.

 

“We’ll work on that too then,” he said, “when we get home. We’ll practice until you’re poltergeisting the place and then we can find something constructive for you to do if you want.”

 

“That would be great. Thanks Dean.”

 

“No problem. We get you moving things and I can draw up a chore list, get you put to work.”

 

Cas couldn’t help laughing at that. “That’s nice! You find the ghost of a dead man and you put him to work as your housekeeper.”

 

“Hey, you’ve gotta pull your weight, man. Plus I really _really_ don’t want to do the vacuuming.”

 

They debated the matter all the way home and finally reached a consensus: Dean would help him figure out touch and Cas would help around the house in whatever way he could, or would. The ghost didn’t seem to mind much. In fact, Dean got the distinct impression he relished the idea of, a) being able to help and b) being able to interact with the world again. Doing a few small jobs, he figured, must seem like a small price to pay for that.

 

Dean unlocked the front door and walked in. He didn’t bother waiting for Cas to follow, merely shut it as the ghost passed through unhindered anyway. It was dark inside; night had fallen as they walked home and Dean grumbled something about the days getting shorter as he fumbled for the light switch. He found it and flicked it, flooding the downstairs with light so bright he had to blink a couple of times.

 

Just as the spots clouding his vision were starting to clear he heard Cas exclaim loudly somewhere off to his right, and saw him stood there beneath the archway that led to the front room.

 

“Oh, _God_!” His voice wavered on the edge of panic. He turned to him and his eyes were wide with horror. If a ghost could look sick, then he did. “Dean, come _quick_!”

 

Dean took a step forwards, felt his foot go cold through his sock, and glanced down.

 

Blood. There was blood on his floor. Why was there blood on his floor?

 

No time to think. He continued forward, doing his best to avoid the quarter-sized drops of blood leading through to his living room. He reached Cas who was staring into the room and who reached out as if to steady himself against the corporeal man. They both ignored his hand phasing through because what they were now looking at consumed all of their attention completely.

 

The blood trail ended at a puddle, and in that puddle stood a woman; a woman, Dean was horrified to realise, he knew. She raised her eyes to him, opened her ruined maw of a mouth and tried to gurgle out a string of words that never came. Her face darkened, her babble became a wet screech so shrill and terrifying it forced Dean to clap his hands over his ears and he took an involuntary step backwards. He didn’t have time to process what was happening because the next thing he knew she was flying across the room at him with her fingers outstretched and bloody and a frenzied fury on her face.

 

   She collided with him and suddenly the noise didn’t matter because new sensations took its place, and they were cold and sharp and scything and she was stabbing at him with her nails and spraying ice-cold blood all over his face with each new furious scream. Cas was calling his name but it was distant, unimportant. All he could do was try to press himself back against and into the floorboards and scream with each new slice she pressed into his flesh but it was to no avail. His whole world shrank to the ruined flesh inches from his face and the savage burning eyes and the accusing look in them and he didn’t know what was happening or how to stop it so he just continued to scream, and scream and

 

scream.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit early but I'm going away this weekend. Have at.

   Time. Time had slowed to a crawl. Everything that was happening happened in a few short moments but for Dean, frozen and bleeding and screaming under the weight of a woman made of fury, those moments lasted decades. He tried to push her off but her hands closed around his forearms and her knees dug into his sides, sharp and strong. A grin bisected her ruined face but there was no humour in it. Rather, a sick, intense rage burned in her wide, staring eyes and the grin only added to the horror. She bared all of her teeth at him and blood gushed from it to coat his face in its icy, cloying ichor.

His screams redoubled as she leaned in close to him. Without warning she released his arm, placed a palm on his forehead, and smashed his head backwards into the floorboards. Stars popped into his eyes and everything took on a strange washed out look. His head was fuzzy and it was suddenly hard to focus. He could hear Cas screaming his name but it seemed light-years away. Too far, he thought, to take notice of.

   The woman’s image swam before him. New blood oozed from open wounds and dripped from the edges of deep gashes that scored a face which, when complete, may once have been kind. Those days were long gone. The rage that burned in her eyes was accompanied by a deep all-encompassing insanity that terrified him more than any degree of rage had. But as time slowed and he stared deeply into her bulging eyes, he could see that there was more. Her eyes contained multitudes and beyond the hurt, beyond the hate, he could see scorn, betrayal and anguish. He could see disappointment and neglect and a sadness so deep, so profound, that as he looked he felt tears well up in his own eyes and spill down his cheeks.

The sight seemed to enrage her and she screamed at him again. Then she was pulling an arm back and making a fist and he knew it was going to come at him with all the wrath and all the power she had in her. He didn’t understand why this was happening but it was too hard to think. It was too hard to scream or struggle any more so he didn’t. His head felt full of cotton wool and he drifted backwards, away from her unblinking stare and livid snarl to a place deep within himself. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. There was no way he could fight any more and so he didn’t. He simply closed his eyes and waited for the impact he knew might kill him.

  Across the room, Castiel saw red, and it wasn’t the blood coating just about everything in sight. This red was bright, sharp, _livid_. This red descended like a haze, smoke and ash, burning, broiling _rage_. It rolled over him and swept him up and his screams joined the others and his hands were closing around the woman’s throat and he was yanking her back, yanking her fist back, yanking her away and off of Dean, but she was too strong and there was so much blood and oh _God_ so much of it was Dean’s.

  It trickled from his nose, from his split lip, from sharp punctures in his sides and scratches crisscrossing his chest bared open to the world by the ragged tears in the shirt she had shredded. His eye was black and swollen shut. Bruises lined his cheekbones and arms where she had grabbed him. Even more blood pooled under hair matted with red, dark red, and Castiel stared at it in growing horror.

 

  The woman sensed his momentary lapse in concentration and used it to throw him off. He collided with the wall, span through it and back out into the hallway, coming to rest at the foot of the stairs. In the living room Dean called his name through bloodied teeth but it was cut short as fingers sought out his throat and clamped tight, choking him into silence. Cas scrambled to his feet and raced back through to see Dean fall back limp against the ground. His entire world narrowed to tunnel vision - to just Dean’s beaten, bloodied face - and it was as if someone had switched the world off. Everything went very, very still.

 

  In his entire remembered existence Castiel was certain he had never felt temperature before. As he was, he existed in a state of nothingness; there was no touch, no temperature, no taste, no scents or sensations of any kind. Everything he had experienced up until this point was a distant suggestion of a thing. He couldn’t even remember what taste and smell had been like. He was a passive observer in a world that didn’t seem to notice he was a part of it. But seeing this, experiencing _this_ , he felt his veins turn first to ice and then, in a great surge of renewed, terrified fury, they ran molten.

 

  He had to help Dean. It was all he could think and it played and replayed over and over in his mind: he had to help Dean. Dean could be _dying_. There was no way he could just stand back and let him _die_. He was his best friend and he was _dying_.

 

  The magma coursing through him grew in intensity until he could no more contain it than he could an exploding volcano. He launched himself across the room and clamped his hands tight around the woman’s waist. She struggled, tried to punch and kick and beat Dean anyway, but Castiel was too much. Every atom in him, every particle, every wavelength was solely focused on one thing; save Dean.

 

  He ripped the woman away from Dean with a roar created from all of his panic and all of his fury. He poured every moment of insecurity and uncertainty he had experienced so far into it and bolstered it with every moment of kindness, reassurance and companionship Dean had afforded him in the short time they had known each other. She kicked and screamed in his hands and attempted to twist away from him but he only tightened his grip.

 

   It was then that he realised how small she was compared to him. He had wrapped his arms firmly around her middle and hoisted her into the air on instinct and now her feet kicked wildly at the air beneath them. This surprised him. Dean he knew was taller by a few inches but he had not noticed that in his own right he boasted above average height and considerable upper body strength. He had upper body strength? His oversized shirt certainly seemed to mask any muscles he may have had in life and gave nothing away; certainly Dean had never made comment. Then another idea crept into his mind and he wondered if the strength at his disposal was really representative of what he held in life or whether, more plausibly, it was as a result of his recent ghosthood. The thought was not wholly heartening but if that was that then there wasn’t much to be done at this point.

 

  Dean coughed from the floor and propped himself up on one elbow. A low groan escaped from between his clenched teeth and though he tried to contain it, it was loud enough to bring Cas back from his daydreaming. He blinked and was horrified once he realised he had been drifting off. Again. He slapped himself mentally and was glad that at least that this time he managed to catch himself before the woman in his arms took advantage and renewed her efforts to hurt Dean. The anger in his eyes flared again but this time it was directed inwardly. He would not endanger Dean any more than he already had, he promised silently, he would protect Dean with everything he had. He squeezed even tighter and the woman shrieked.

 

   She wriggled and bucked, kicked and screamed in anger, twisted in his arms and clawed at him. He tried to ground himself but she had formidable strength of her own. He glanced over at Dean and met his eyes; well, one of his eyes, the other was swollen completely shut. He was about to ask just what he was supposed to do with her now – he could hardly hold her like this forever and there was no way they could call the police or tie her up or anything like that – when the woman smashed the back of her head into his nose.

 

   It didn’t hurt but the shock of somebody’s head colliding very abruptly with your own is enough to distract anyone and his grip slackened in surprise. She seized the moment and broke free of his grasp, turning back on him with a wide, sick grin that stretched the torn ribbons of flesh even further. She was horrifying, terrifying to behold, and she knew it, Cas could tell. She knew it. She weaponised it, used it to freeze him in place and, still grinning shot out a bloodstained and dripping hand. Her fingers slammed into his chest and gathered up a fistful of his shirt. Though taller than her in life, in death she had the benefit of levitation and matched his height with ease. She pulled him in close, her smile widening so far that he thought it might tear her face in two, and grinning that ghastly grin reached out to touch his forehead with her free hand.

 

Her fingers were light; smoke on glass. The touch was icy and chilled any remaining heat Castiel had barely noticed was still there. His eyes widened as a flash of something… no… an image? Or was it a sound? He couldn’t tell. Something stirred in his memory but he couldn’t hold onto it long enough to figure out what it was. His mind felt like it was freezing over.

 

Icy tendrils burrowed into grey matter he realistically knew wasn’t there but felt all the same. They dug and twined through every crack and crevice and seemed to find what they were looking for because all of a sudden he wasn’t standing in Dean’s front room anymore but instead a wide open space, dark and dusty, that was littered with old machinery and rusted through storage containers. The woman was gone too but he could still feel her cold fingers pressing through his skull like icicles as they delved deeper into his mind. He didn’t know what she was looking for: hell, he didn’t even know where he was.

 

The place he stood in was unfamiliar to him and yet, at the same time, all too familiar. He couldn’t work out where it was supposed to be or why he would be there; it certainly didn’t look like the sort of place someone would hang about in for fun. He peered into the shadows that surrounded him and managed to make out a light. Was that a doorway? To the outside, perhaps? He tried to take a step towards it but the chill in his brain dropped another few degrees and stopped him before his foot fell. Clearly she didn’t want him going that way. So what was he meant to do?

 

He turned away from the light and squinted into the darkness. He could make out the shapes of ruined machinery and the containers and- wait! What was that? He moved instinctively and this time she let him follow his feet. They took him deeper into the room, further from the outside and the light, all the way back to the end of the room. As he walked he noticed the darkness splitting in front of him. A flickering light towards the back of the room cast some illumination, but it was intermittent, buzzing, and threatened to go out with every blink. Nevertheless he felt inexplicably drawn to this light, like a moth to a flame, and couldn’t take his eyes off of it even as it wavered. Something crunched underfoot but it was inconsequential. All that mattered was reaching the light.

 

It was swaying, he noticed as he got nearer. A ceiling light, just a bulb on a string, it swayed slowly from side to side and vanished for just a moment whenever it swung left. Why would it…? Oh. It was behind a window. When it swung left it disappeared behind the wall for just a moment before returning and casting light on him once more. A window. And there, to the right of it, a door at the top of a small flight of metal steps. The railing was broken in three places but he didn’t care. The sound of his shoes on metal rang through the room and echoed back at him as he climbed. The door was nearer now. The light through the window was slowing its movement. He approached, suddenly overcome with terror when before there had been nothing. He approached, and the door handle was right there. He approached and reached out, feeling cool metal under his fingers. He approached and

 

Woke up.

 

His eyes refocused on what was in front of him. The dark room was gone replaced by Dean’s house. He still lay on the floor but was watching the ghosts with something close to trepidation on his bloodied bloodless face. The woman had pulled her hand back and was regarding him with a mixture of confusion and sadness. Her fury seemed to have subsided and Castiel was glad; he didn’t think he could manage another fight after… _that_. Whatever _that_ had been.

 

His mind still felt like it was coated in a thin covering of frost but it was starting to melt. He rubbed at his head as though plagued with a migraine and tried to hold onto the images that he had just walked physically through. Already they felt flat, two dimensional when just moments prior they had been solid and real. They receded like waking from a dream until he was left with a grey impression rather than a true recollection of whatever had happened there. _A ghost of a memory_ he thought, wryly, and, certain there was little more he could do about trying to regain what he had just lost, turned his attention back to the woman.

 

She watched him. Her hands hung at her sides. Her feet floated mere inches off the ground. Blood dripped sluggishly from her toes and joined one of the many puddles drowning Dean’s floor and at once Castiel was convinced it wasn’t really there, just as they weren’t really there. He looked up and met her eyes. There was no more anger there and though he still felt some ire at what she had done to Dean for the moment it was forgotten, replaced by his own uncertainty at what he had just witnessed. He tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat. When he tried again the woman held up a hand and he fell silent.

 

She approached him slowly, like one would an injured animal. He didn’t know what to do so he did nothing and let her come. This time he didn’t feel any hostility radiating off of her in thick, palpable waves. This time she was calm. This time she stopped just short of him and looked up searchingly into his eyes. The hint of a smile played around her ragged lips and a small bubble of blood rounded and then burst as she… was she trying to laugh? She reached out the same hand that had latched onto him and sought out places still alien to him even in his own mind. This time she touched his cheek, gently, and then cupped his jaw, almost like a mother. Her smile became kind and she leaned in, leaned up, and whispered to him the only words he had heard her manage.

 

“Like…. me…” she said and her voice sounded like dust and forgotten things, gentle and wispy and not at all congruent with the gruesome face it came out of. She patted his cheek once more and leaned back. Her lips moved but this time could manage no sound. It didn’t matter. Castiel could tell what she was trying to say; her eyes, round and pleading, spoke for her. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed. And then she was pulling her hand back and retreating and even as he watched, even as he stared at her, she vanished like a candle snuffed out by an unseen breath. Neither said a word. All the two could do was stare at the spot she had gone from in a shared numbed silence and wonder what on Earth had just happened.


	17. Chapter 17

“Oww, Jesus that hurts.” Dean moaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows. He touched his face gingerly, hesitantly, and ended up wincing anyway as blunt fingers met raw flesh. He groaned and tried to steady himself but his various wounds protested against any and all movement he tried to make. His arm must have agreed because the single supporting structure bearing all of his weight wavered and then buckled. He fell back with another moan and a quiet “ _Sonuvah_ ” hissed between clenched teeth. This time he got the message and stayed down.

 

  Castiel didn’t seem to notice. The ghost stood, tall and silent, where the woman had released him. He stared with unblinking eyes still at the spot in which she had last been standing, appearing as though a pale statue, but inside he was consumed by his own turbulent thoughts. In his mind he walked that long dark room again but no matter how many times he tried to open the door it remained tightly sealed.

 

Dean rolled his head and it was painful; there was definitely a lump rising on the back of his skull and that hurt like hell when it pressed against the hardwood floorboards. He pushed through the pain and locked his good eye on Cas. His friend seemed switched off, completely in a world of his own. Dean had no idea what had just happened but the twisting feeling in his gut didn’t colour it as very good. Castiel was still frozen in place and Dean allowed his eye to lose focus. His thoughts swam back to just moments ago when the hurt was ebbing and the sight before him was strange and wholly alarming.

   Ignored and thankfully forgotten from any more of her sudden and very confusing attacks he had watched, groaning and bleeding, as they had stood there together: he wide-eyed and eerily still, she with her ragged fingers bypassing his skin and reaching deep into his head. It had looked horribly uncomfortable, not to mention deeply, incredibly wrong. He had felt sick. Judging from how Cas had shuddered as her fingers delved deeper, being on the receiving end had been more than unpleasant, to say the least.

 

God only knew what she had been doing to him.

And now he just stood there. Blank. Expressionless. Entrapped in his own mind.

 

Dean shifted his position and couldn’t help exclaiming in pain as the barely congealed wounds on his chest started bleeding anew. His shirt was a bloody mess already and so he couldn’t assess the damage, but he felt it, hot and wet against his skin. He pressed his hand against his chest, clenched his good eye shut and pressed. Pain. But no worse than feeling her fingernails slice his skin so he pushed past it and kept the pressure.

 

He opened his eye to just a slit and tried to assess the damage. He was already in pain, he reasoned, so why not some more? He pushed himself up in one swift motion, ignoring the wounds that pulsated red and the stomach muscles cramped from his screaming. HE peeled the remains of his shirt away to better see what had happened.

 

   The first thing that he noticed was that he had been lucky. Very lucky. It was strange to learn that all of his wounds were shallow. Painful, yes, but shallow. They had felt much deeper when she had been attacking him, had felt sharper too, but as he gingerly poked and prodded bruised and cut flesh alike he came to one conclusion; she hadn’t damaged him nearly as badly as it had felt.

 

 

He balled up his discarded shirt and used it to wipe away some of the blood that covered him. He had been right. When cleaned his wounds actually looked… superficial. But that didn’t make any sense. He had seen it, seen her nails stab into his chest, seen the blood pour out and felt it as she cut and beat and sliced away at him.

 

   And yet, bar a few cuts and bruises, and one or two shallow puncture wounds to his sides, he was remarkably unharmed.

 

He didn’t know how to explain it until he saw the blood still pooled at the spot he had first seen her in and it all clicked into place.

 

It wasn’t his blood. Well, that wasn’t quite true, some of it was, clearly - and some of it was seeping out of a cut to his cheekbone right as he had the thought - but the vast majority of it wasn’t actually his.

 

It was hers.

 

It made sense in a horrible sort of way. The blood trail, the puddle that dripped from her gore-soaked toes and leaked from the terrible gashes to her face and throat; all of it was a part of her and all of it was dead. She still oozed dead blood that wasn’t really there, like Castiel’s tie and shoes weren’t really there, like the woman’s ravaged nightgown wasn’t really there, except to him.

 

But what did that mean? Why would she… Oh. Dean pushed himself up and leaned heavily against the wall. He wiped the blood trickling down his cheek away with the back of his hand and looked at it, smeared against his skin. It had been an illusion. The other blood. _Her_ blood. She had been furious with him – why he wasn’t yet sure – but her fury was unmistakable. And so she had attacked him. She had come to his home and attacked him and when her fury wasn’t enough to let her truly, properly hurt him she had made it seem worse and had made it feel worse.

 

She had used supernatural parlour tricks he didn’t quite understand to make him believe she was killing him because she, for whatever reason, couldn’t. But why couldn’t she?

 

He glanced over at the still stationary Castiel and he thought it might make sense. He was just about to chase after that line of thought when Cas’ eyes, which up until that point had been focused on the floor, snapped up and met his. They stared at each other for a moment, Dean leaning heavily against the wall and wincing, Cas with that same strange blankness. Then the ghost seemed to register what he was seeing and his eyes widened in horror.

“Dean! Oh my God, are you alright?” He advanced looking worried and terrified all at the same time. “Should you be moving?”

 

“Technically I’m not, I’m leaning.” Cas didn’t look impressed.

 

“I mean it Dean, she really hurt you. You lost a lot of…blood?” His eyes scanned Dean and his eyebrows met in confusion. “But…”

 

“Yeah, I know, I look incredible right?”

 

“Well…. Yeah. But I thought… I mean… Dean, she was slicing you open and there was so much _blood_.”

 

Dean shrugged and looked down at himself. “Actually,” he said, “seems like it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Or felt. She barely scratched me.”

 

“But…”

 

“I know, I don’t get it myself. I mean, I get the blood thing. It was some kind of weird ghosty projection or something? I’m not sure but I think it was hers.”

 

“Oh. Oh! You mean like how she was dripping blood everywhere? She conjured… more? _Why_?”

 

“Beats me. I guess she wanted to scare me. I mean, she was pretty mad, right? And I guess she couldn’t hurt me as much as she wanted? I don’t really get why… She clearly did hurt me, just not very much. It felt fucking horrible though, like she was really ripping me apart. Ugh.”

 

“It looked it too.” Castiel’s voice dropped and his expression turned sombre. “Dean, I really thought she was killing you. There was so much blood, and you were screaming and then your head!”

 

“Ah, no, my head’s fine. I mean, there’s a lump, no question, but no dented skull as far as I can tell.”

 

Castiel came closer and peered at him. He crossed his arms and leaned in close, staring deeply into Dean’s eyes.

 

“Dude?”

 

“Shh.” The ghost glanced at each of Dean’s ears and hmm’d to himself. Then he held up a finger which Dean regarded cross-eyed.

 

“Touch my finger and then your nose, quick as you can.” Dean pursed his lips and glanced off to the side. His feet shuffled and he chuckled nervously.

 

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

 

“You realise I can’t touch your finger?”

 

“Mmhmm, not the point. Humour me.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, lifted his finger and pressed it against his nose. He shot it out and met the place where Cas’ finger should be. They both ignored the lack of touch and the shiver that rippled up Dean’s arm. He repeated the motion two or three more times and then dropped his hand, raising an eyebrow quizzically at his friend.

 

“You’re fine,” the ghost declared. “I don’t think you’re concussed. Can’t be sure, but I think you’ll live.”

 

“That’s wha- Cas, c’mon, I’m fine. Sore, but fine. And I could’ve told you I’m not concussed.”

 

The ghost just shrugged in return, crossed his arms loosely and settled back as though sitting. He crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head. “Can’t be too careful,” he said.

 

“No, I suppo- Wait.” Dean’s eyebrows met in the middle as a thought he had let fade from the forefront of his mind suddenly reappeared, retrieved by Castiel’s little test and given new life. “Cas,” he said, “that’s it.”

 

“That’s it? What’s it?”

 

“Why she didn’t kill me. It didn’t even occur to me at the time.” The ghost looked confused.

“Look,” Dean said, hugging his ribs with one arm and gesturing to his friend with the other. “You couldn’t touch me, right?”

 

“…right?”

 

“So why could she?”

 

“Well I assume she’s more practiced than I am. Did you see her dress? It wasn’t modern.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

   The gears in Dean’s head were turning and the thought quickly picked up pace. She had been dead longer than his ghost, that much was obvious. Naturally, he reasoned, she was more skilled at it. She could touch him and hurt him where Castiel could barely influence a paintbrush and yet, despite her experience and skill she had been unable to do more that nick and bruise and puncture. Her ability to touch him, whilst stronger than Castiel’s, was still far too weak to do any real damage and so she had made him feel what she wanted him to feel and made him bleed how she wanted him to bleed.

 

He couldn’t help but laugh though it hurt him and Cas looked worried. He had thought he was going to die at her hands. He didn’t even stop to consider, in the midst of all his bleeding and screaming, that maybe she couldn’t do it. Maybe, it wasn’t real. Though, in fairness, when it had all felt so real and so mortal it was hard to believe that the ghost inflicting all of his so called pain wasn’t actually doing all that much. He felt like an idiot. A sore idiot. A sore idiot covered in weird, lingering ghost blood who very much needed a shower.

 

“She could touch me but just barely. We were right, it must be fuelled by emotion or something and she was mad, Cas, she was fucking furious at me. Dunno why, but that’s not important right now.”

 

“I’d say it is…”

 

“What’s important is that she was mad enough to touch me, but too weak to kill me.”

 

“She seemed plenty strong when we fought.” Cas sat forwards and considered it. “But then... we are made of the same stuff, I suppose. And she’s been at this longer than me. Ghost vs ghost she was bound to be stronger.”

 

Dean was nodding and looked strangely pleased. “Exactly,” he said. “But I’m alive and you guys seem to find it hard to touch things that aren’t dead.” He considered that and added, “Thank God.” Castiel seemed to share the sentiment.

 

“But why was she so angry with you? Why would she even want to hurt you, let alone kill you?”

 

“I don’t know. You two had a little thing go on for a moment yourself, what was that all about?”

 

Cas still looked concerned but allowed the new question anyway. He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure,” he mumbled, “but I think… I think I was inside a memory.”

 

“Your memory?”

 

“I guess so. It felt weirdly familiar but I didn’t recognise it. I was in a big, dark room and there was a locked door.” His eyes became distant. “I tried to open it. It felt like I had to open it, like something important was on the other side. But as I reached for the door handle… she pulled me back.”

 

“Huh. Are you sure it wasn’t _her_ memory? I mean, she might’ve been-”

 

“No. It was mine, I’m sure it was. She was in my head and she was looking for something and whatever it was I think it was behind that door. Wish it made sense though, you know?”

 

Dean nodded and tried for a smile. “You’ll figure it out, I’m sure,” he said and then winced as his forgot his injuries and went to clap a hand on his insubstantial housemate’s shoulder. His wounds leaked new blood and his hand went numb from the cold but Cas seemed to appreciate the gesture nonetheless. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Dean added, with a glance at the mixture of unreal and real blood crusting on his skin, “I need to take the longest shower of my life. And then maybe alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. I think I’ve earned it.”

 

He pushed away from the wall and stumbled to the staircase which he climbed, slowly, a step at a time and vanished from sight. A few minutes later Cas heard the water turn on and the creak that meant Dean had stepped into its warmth and allowed himself a small smile. It faded quickly though when he took in the gory state of the living room and the mess the intruding ghost had made of Dean’s… _their_ house. He was troubled.

 

   As he glanced at the pools and smears of blood, some human some whatever, Cas was no less concerned than he had been previously. Dean may have explained it away to himself, that she wasn’t strong enough to really hurt him, and sure, let him believe that. But the fact of the matter was that she had hurt him. Not fatally, true, but enough. What about next time? What if they encountered a ghost that could truly kill him? Not to mention why she been so livid in the first place.

 

And what did she mean, Cas wondered, as he paced the room examining areas of disarray and destruction, when she had said “ _like me?”_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bleeeeh didn't feel like writing but I had to so here. It's a week late but I blame Cardiff for that - nobody wants to write after spending the day in Wales.

The next couple of days passed with relative ease. In time Dean’s wounds would close up and heal over but for the time being he was covered in bandages, mostly at Cas’ insistence. If Dean had had it his way he would have slapped a Band-Aid on for a few hours and then pick at it as it scabbed over but his phantom friend seemed to disapprove when he mentioned his past treatment of injuries. So, bandages it was.

   Luckily for them no new spectral intruders showed up in their home and they sure couldn’t say they were sorry about that. They still weren’t sure the last one’s motives and spent several separate hours sitting and talking about her – what she may have wanted, why she had been so savage when before she had all but reconnected the two; why, in short, she had tried with all her power to murder Dean. But they had come up with nothing.

   “Maybe we’ll run into her again someday,” Cas had supplied one day as the sun began to set and the light through the window turned insipid. Dean didn’t answer. Instead he got up to draw the curtains and flick on a standing lamp they had found for a steal in town on their last trip. It cast the room in a comfortable glow and he settled back into his armchair. “You never know, maybe we can just ask her.”

   “I’d rather not. The bitch tried to kill me, remember?  _Repeatedly_. And she messed around in your head! I mean,  _dude_ , she was knuckle-deep in there. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

   Cas tilted his head and shrugged. “It didn’t hurt me,” he said as he folded his arms. “If anything she did me a favour.”

 “How so?” Dean pulled his laptop onto his crossed legs and booted it up. “I thought you didn’t know what she showed you?”

   “And I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do? But I’ve been thinking… It must have been somewhere important or why else would she show me it? You said it yourself, she was looking for something in there and, well, maybe…” He trailed off and rubbed at a spot on his arm, eyes downcast, whilst he chewed uneasily on his lower lip with two dull incisors. Dean glanced his way, concerned at the faraway look on his friend’s face. It had become a frequent look for the ghost lately and Dean was concerned Cas was getting more and more lost in his own unfamiliar mind. He waited for him to continue and when he didn’t, merely stared at his own feet, Dean prompted him.

   “Maybe…?”

   “Oh I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Cas.”

   The ghost looked pained. His eyes drifted skywards and he played with the end of his tie, twisting the material back and forth between nervous fingers, folding and straightening it until it was severely creased. When he let go it was back to front but neither men noticed and certainly didn’t seem to care. Castiel was busy interlocking his fingers and mumbling unintelligibly to himself and Dean, becoming increasingly impatient, repeated the ghost’s name with palpable emphasis. “ _Cas_. Quit dodging and tell me.” He actually got an eye-roll in response and a fairly disgruntled look to accompany it.

   “You’re very persistent, did you know that?”

   “It’s one of my many virtues. Enjoy. But seriously Cas, tell me what’s up.”

  Cas sighed and shrugged one shoulder. “I think it’s safe to say she was murdered, right?” Dean nodded and pulled a face.

“Pretty viciously by the look of her.”

  “And she never moved on, if that’s even a thing. She’s stuck here, alone, unable to speak and… well…” He gave Dean a strained look and all of a sudden it made sense. Dean groaned and buried his head in his hands. He muttered something to himself, leaned back in his chair and stared unblinking at the ceiling.

“ _That’s_ why she came here, oh **_fuck_**.” He smacked himself in the forehead which, in hindsight was rather stupid as the heel of his hand made contact with a yellowed bruise on his left temple. To say it smarted a little would be to put it lightly and Dean groaned a second time.

  “I don’t know why she attacked you,” Cas said and his voice was quiet, soft. It pulled Dean back to their conversation. “Not for certain. But there was so much rage and so much anguish in her and I could feel it, you know, when she was in my head? She was so alone and so scared and… oh, Dean, I’m sorry, but I think she blamed you a little bit. To have someone dangled in front of her who could have helped after all the years of loneliness, it must have pushed her over the edge.”

  There was a moment of silence as Dean digested those words. It made sense in a horrible, twisted sort of way. Castiel looked uncomfortable and Dean certainly felt it himself. He shifted in his seat and the wounds on his chest twinged, reminding him of the tangibility of her fury.

“God I’m an idiot.” This time Dean’s voice was quiet. He stared at the opposite wall but his eyes were unfocused, unseeing. His brow furrowed and he ran claw-like fingers angrily through his short hair. “I must have been the first person to see or speak to her in, Christ, who even knows how long. No wonder she was pissed. I ran off without giving her a second glance and what, just expected her to still be sane after everything she must have gone through?” He laughed but it was short and bitter. “ _Fuck,”_ he snarled but all the anger was focused at himself.

  “Dean-“

  “And to make it worse I was looking for you, another ghost! That must have been a real slap in the face. I fucking deserved to be beat on the way I acted.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Oh I could have. I just didn’t care enough to look. You remember what I said, that night I found you, when we were sat out in the car?”

  Cas mm’d and settled himself on the sofa with steepled fingers and a tilted head. “I remember,” he said and Dean nodded.

  “Yeah. She was terrifying, man. Well, you know that now, you saw her. And I said it, I said I didn’t want to deal with any more ghosts, you were it, the only one and… And… Shit. I deserved it. She was right there, covered in her own blood and I didn’t care, I just left her there. I mean, Jesus Cas, imagine what must’ve happened to her, for her to look like that. Just _imagine_.”

  “Yeah, I know. But Dean, you couldn’t have known. Not really.”

  The painter studied his face for a few seconds and seemed to see the sincerity there because he simply sat back and sighed and all of his torment and all of his tiredness seemed to be behind that sigh because it was heavy and long and when it was done Dean looked much older than his considerable youth. “Well,” he said eventually and threw up one hand in a careless, dismissive gesture, “nothing we can do now. She’s in the wind and I honestly don’t care about tracking her down. I don’t feel much like getting my ass handed to me a second time either. So instead-” With this he turned back to his computer and turned it so that Cas could see the screen. “-this.”

  On the screen an attractive but desperately sad looking young woman with flaming red hair stood with an older man, sandy but equally distraught, stood surrounded by police in front of a building the caption described to be the Pontiac Police Department. Castiel looked momentarily confused and then it clicked and his expression shifted.

  “Oh! Anna and Balthazar? My brother and sister?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “They haven’t found you, if that’s what you were thinking.” Cas’ face shifted almost imperceptibly but Dean caught it – disappointment, and that was understandable. He scrambled to make his friend feel better and managed a smile he thought was almost sincere. “But don’t worry,” he insisted, “I’m sure they will.”

  Cas nodded but Dean could see the ghost was sceptical. He didn’t betray his emotions though when he next spoke, rather his voice was even and firm with no trace of worry or fear in his words. “So what’s it about then?”

  Dean scrolled quickly through the page and clicked his tongue. He frowned at the words. “Not sure. Looks like they’re redoubling their efforts to find you. Your siblings still think you might be alive out there. Coma, Anna thinks.”

 “Really?”

  “Yeah, look at this.”

  Cas drifted over to where Dean sat and the painter rotated the screen again so the ghost could read it, which he did, aloud.

  ‘“…. Might be in a hospital somewhere as a John Doe with no memory and no way to find us, or he might even be in a coma somewhere…”’ Cas raised an eyebrow. “Seems a little farfetched, doesn’t it?”

  “Well you never know, she might be right. For all we know you’re not dead just a, what do they call it-“

  “Astral projection?”

  “Yeah! Out of body experience or whatever. And you _don’t_ have your memory, so she might not be half wrong.”

  “I don’t know, Dean, it seems a little like grasping at straws. Wouldn’t people recognise me if I were in a hospital? My face is all over the news after all.”

  “I guess.” Dean couldn’t help feeling despondent and he became so lost in what it might mean if the theory had any truth to it that didn’t even realise he was still speaking, albeit in a whisper. “I’d like to believe it though.”

  “… me too.”

  They exchanged a look; Dean’s embarrassed, Cas’ sad. They poured a lot of the things neither wanted to say into that look and though it only lasted moments, seconds at the longest, for them, looking at each other, it felt like eons. Then Dean cleared his throat and looked away and Cas allowed the moment to melt away with a small smile the psychic didn’t see. Cas spoke first, mostly just to allow Dean a moment to compose himself. Emotions weren’t his strong suit and the ghost knew that already despite their short time together.

  “It’s a nice idea, isn’t it.”

  “Yeah. It might be true still, neither of us knows how this thing works. For one,” Dean crossed his arms and surveyed the ghost, huffing out a quiet laugh when he was done, “now that I think about it, you don’t look like that woman at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t look like her. You know, bleeding or whatever. It was pretty obvious she’d had her throat slashed or whatever but you – nothing. No cuts, bullet holes, bruises around your throat. Nothing to indicate death. You’re not even blue in the face or anything, you just look normal.”

  “Well that’s hardly proof I’m actually in a coma somewhere. I might’ve drowned or been poisoned or had a heart attack. Besides, like you said, we don’t know how this works. There might be something more to it.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged and returned to the sofa. “I honestly don’t. But…”

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

 “Like I said, I don’t know for sure but… well. I got this feeling, when she let go and I came back to myself, she said – did you hear her?” Dean shook his head. “She said ‘like me’ and I’ve been thinking about what that might mean.”

  Dean was quiet. Thoughtful. He mulled the words over in his mind and discovered he didn’t like how they felt, or how they tasted in his mouth when he repeated them. He also discovered he didn’t like the look on Castiel’s face when he said them: it was a look of almost fervent hope, like a drowning man thrown a life preserver in the ocean, but it was the deeper look layered behind it that Dean didn’t like. He instantly recognised it for what it was, and that was pure, single-minded longing. Normally this wouldn’t have bothered him but it was the way Cas nodded when he repeated the words that set Dean on edge. He was throwing all his hope at this small phrase, these two strange words that a crazed, furious ghost had said to him and Dean was worried because he could see it already in Cas’ eyes; his friend thought this was it, this was what would set them on the path to figuring it all out and the thought sent knives ten times sharper than the woman’s nails straight into his heart.

  Oh no. Ohh, no no no, that was too terrible, too selfish. He wouldn’t think that way. He couldn’t. He tried to push it from his mind but the more he struggled the tighter it latched onto his heart and the deeper it plunged its claws until he could hardly stand it. It compressed him and the pain of it mingled with the selfishness consuming his thoughts and he couldn’t stand it; couldn’t stand what it meant.

  He couldn’t stand what those two little words might mean for Castiel and he couldn’t stand that the first thing he had thought when confronted with the first tangible lead in this batshit insane quest they had taken on, was “ _no, I don’t want him to go_ ”.

 

  Because he would. Dean knew that now. He knew that the moment they figured out what had happened to Cas, the moment their little mission was all over… that was it. Cas would be gone. The best friend he had ever had would be gone. The man he… he… Oh, _Christ_. The pain of emotions he didn’t understand and was trying very hard to ignore resurfaced once more to attempt to gain a foothold, a ledge, a goddamned front-row seat to the very real, and very inappropriate crush that was continuing to blossom within the artist, despite his every attempt to dislodge it.

 

   But it was still there. He could pretend it wasn’t. He could bury it in layers of friendship and companionship and every reason under the sun why this was the absolutely worst thing that could have happened. He could ignore it, deny it, laugh at it, dismiss it, but it was still there and the longer he thought about it and what it might mean if Castiel were to leave him, the more he realised that was the absolutely last thing he wanted.

 

  It was selfish – unbelievably so – but it was how he felt and he couldn’t switch it off no matter how many times he told himself not to go there, not to think that.

 

  Castiel was looking at him now in that curious slit-eyed way of his and Dean knew he had been too quiet for too long but there was nothing he could say, the words wouldn’t come.  

 

  Inside the same phrase repeated over and over and over, echoing through his head and consuming every thought, but he couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t say it. How could he? How could he rob Castiel of everything he had lost so selfishly? How could he ask him, beg him to stay here, with him, when there was a chance, no matter how small, that he could find out what had happened to make him this way? He couldn’t.

 

  So he swallowed the words and swallowed the plea. What came out of his mouth was optimistic, reassuring and Castiel responded as such; obviously excited and obviously certain that those two words, despite meaning very little, may somehow start them on their way to figuring out this whole mess. Dean could do nothing more that agree with him though inside his heart was breaking. But he had known this was coming. This was the plan. Find out what had happened to Castiel and give the man some closure. It wasn’t his fault that Dean Winchester, idiot that he was, had fallen head over heels for a man he knew – absolutely knew – was beyond his reach.

 

  For a moment Dean entertained thoughts of self-centred betrayal. He thought of all the ways in which he could derail Cas’ train of thought, disregard the woman’s hint as the ramblings of a clearly deranged mind, allow the trail to go cold and keep him here, with him, forever. But even as he had those thoughts, even as he considered doing it right then and there, he saw the happiness in Castiel’s eyes, the hope on his face and the excitement in his smile and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He would not be the reason Castiel would become like that woman – alone and adrift and so clearly plagued by the horrors of her past. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

 

  So he let the idea die in his mind and turn to bitter ash as he threw himself wholeheartedly into discussing with his friend – his **friend** – what their next move could be and it was enough.

It would have to be enough.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

  “That’s it, just- No, Cas, man,  _no_ - _oh_ ,  _jeez_ …” Dean sighed and put the paintbrush he had been waving around down, rubbing his eyes with his spare hand as he did so and trying his hardest not to let on how frustrated he was. “Alright, you know what, let’s take a break.”

  “I’m sorry Dean,” the ghost said and his voice was small, hushed. With his eyes downcast, his hands twisted together and his shoulders sadly slumped he looked tired, if such a thing was possible; drawn out and drained and as though all the colour had seeped right out of him. His skin, which was usually on the edge of tanned appeared ashen, almost translucent, and his brilliant blue eyes were as insipid as the grey rain beating against the windows. Even his clothes seemed less vibrant; the white dull, the black faded, the navy of his tie dim and washed out. Frankly, for want of a better word, he looked dead.

  Dean sighed again and rubbed at some paint that had gotten onto the back of his hand. The picture was coming along slowly and he seriously doubted he’d have enough finished for Jim’s upcoming gallery. He had sent him his portfolio a few days prior, not long after the ghost-woman had attacked them, and the proprietor had enthusiastically welcomed his work into the show.

  But now… Now he didn’t think he had the energy, much less the time, to actually make Jim’s generous offer worthwhile; at least not in the way he had originally hoped. He couldn’t help think that he had bitten off more than he could chew, all at once, without really thinking things through. That didn’t mean he begrudged Cas’ presence, not in the slightest, but he had to admit that since becoming friends with the spirit he had had quite the upheaval to his normally slow-paced life.

  Case in point: Cas had just accidentally sent several tins of paint, some canvases – both painted and plain – and a stack of sketchbooks crashing to the floor in an effort to pick up a plastic cup Dean had set on top of them. He had figured the ghost should try to move something shatterproof, just in case, and for the most part it had been a good idea. What he hadn’t thought of was that Cas might just manage to be a bit  _too_  tangible and, as proven, move other shit too. Which he did. _Spectacularly_.

  Dean wasn’t even sure how he’d managed it; one moment he’s carefully closing his fingers around the cup in an effort to grasp it and the next he’s crying out in alarm as his arms pass through the piles of things making the hasty and rather sudden journey to their new home on the floor. They landed in a heap below feet he had instinctively pulled up despite knowing nothing could actually land on or hurt his toes. Dean chalked that one up to muscle-memory even as he winced at the noise.

  “I am really sorry, Dean,” Cas repeated. He hovered a few inches above the mess and looked down at it miserably. “I-“

  “It’s fine. My fault really, I should have tidied that crap up days ago.” He sighed again – but this time quietly, he didn’t want to make Cas feel worse – and ruffled his hair up with both hands. He didn’t notice but he left blue paint amongst the brown-blond, and when he scratched the stubble he had allowed to start growing on his cheeks, inadvertently smeared paint there too. Cas was too busy looking at the chaos he had unleashed on the floor to notice either and so it stayed there amongst the hair; blue the colour of Mediterranean ocean water blending with the sand of his hair, the sun-kissed freckles of his cheeks and across the soft angles of his hands.

  Dean stepped away from his easel to survey the damage. None of the canvases had torn, thank God, not that he minded much anyway; the blank ones were replaceable and the finished ones not amongst his favourite pieces. Still, if work was going to go as slowly as he thought it might, it may be prudent to preserve as many finished pieces as possible and not leave them in a big heap on the floor.

  Cas opened his mouth and he knew instinctively that another apology was coming. He blocked it with two raised hands, palms outwards, and smiled. Though tired it was still genuine. It didn’t seem to cheer up Castiel though because the look of worry and disappointment was etched so deep into his face it almost looked permanent. He had to try with all his might to stop a laugh that built in his throat and threatened to spill forwards at the sheer look of misery on Cas’ face but, God, he couldn’t help it and the laugh escaped anyway. The ghost looked just as miserable as before and Dean couldn’t just leave him like that.

  Chuckling good-humouredly, he over exaggerated a shrug and stepped carefully over some tins that had rolled his way to stand by his friend. Floating as he was they stood more or less equal in height and Dean resisted the urge to make a quip about his height.

  “Cas, it’s ok. Really.”

  “But I-“

  “Knocked some shit over, big deal.” The look was still there and Dean had to resist the urge to roll his eyes; say what you would about Cas, when he thought something was his fault, my God did he believe it. “Dude, it’s hardly the end of the world. If anything, this was actually pretty good.” The squint he got in return was searching, disbelieving, and Dean shrugged again. “No, really. I mean, you were trying to touch stuff anyway, right? Well, you did. Good job.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “That’s the spirit buddy,” said Dean and went to clap him on the back. He remembered just in time to stop himself from propelling his arm straight through his friend’s torso, instead managing to just sort of brush against it awkwardly. It was damn cold but at least Cas didn’t seem to notice. “And,” he continued, clenching and unclenching his fist to get the ice out, “seeing as you’re the resident stuff-toucher around here, _you_ get to clean it up. Consider it practice.”

  _That_ elicited a smile from the ghost and he drifted back down to floor-level with a nod, rolling up his sleeves as he did so and taking in the mess before him.

  “Remember: concentrate. Just do whatever the hell you did to do, well, this.” He paused and considered it thoughtfully. “What did you do to do this? Was Ghost right? Emotion or whatever?”

  Cas had dropped to his knees and seemed to be readying himself to try picking up a can of paint that lay rather forlornly on its dented side. He glanced up at Dean and gave an odd half-smile. “Something like that,” he said, and reached for the can. His fingers closed around it with such conviction that Dean half-forgot Cas’ fingers weren’t actually solid. The ghost hoisted it into the air and held it there, blinking owlishly as Dean spread his arms wide in triumph.

  “You did it!”

  “I did it?”

  “You so did it. Look at you, interacting with the mortal plane. On _purpose_.”

  That odd half-smile was back and Cas’ climbed back to his feet and set the paint on the table he had knocked it off of.

  “One down…”

  “A bunch more to go. I’ll leave this to you, Mr Capable.” Dean took in the look of joy Cas was desperately trying not to show but did anyway and his heart soared. It was adorable that just this, just being able to pick something up, was something Cas took such pride in when it was the most basic thing in the world to the artist. He took a lot for granted he realised as he made his way back to his easel. Touch and taste and sensation were all things he just expected to be there. For him, they weren’t achievements; he could pick up whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He could interact with the world and was a part of the world and for Cas to have not had that for as far as his memory extended, it must feel huge to be able to at least lift a paint can and pretend, just for a moment, that he too was a part of things.

   All these thoughts and feelings swarmed through Dean as he painted. Across the room Castiel was making some small progress on tidying up and with each lifted canvas, and each gently handled sketchbook, his smile only grew wider and ever more joyous. Though he returned his attention to his work, the painter kept an eye on the spirit and as his mood lifted so did his own. There was something so endearing, so heartwarming about seeing someone so consumed in a task and taking such pleasure from it  that, hardly without noticing, Dean began transferring everything he was seeing and feeling into the canvas before him. What grew from it was a warm, flowing scene absolutely littered with bright and vibrant flowers, inviting fields of gold that despite being stationary seemed to wave lazily with a comfortable summer breeze whilst the sky above shone bright and blue and devoid of cloud cover. In short, it was quite unlike the veritable storm raging outside their windows that day.

  They carried on like that in easy companionship. The painting made great progress to the point that Dean thought he might even be able to start another whilst inspiration still presented itself; maybe a churning seascape, or a study of storm-darkened skies, or maybe even the quiet power of a river. Oblivious to the cogs turning in the painter’s mind, Castiel moved from the neat stack of things he had picked up and began tidying up everything he could, quite literally, lay his hands on. He found great joy in arranging and ordering it all, pausing only to consider whether the acrylics should go _here_ , or maybe more appropriately over _there_.

  He was just lining up a set of oils in rainbow order when his grip accidentally tightened too much around of the tube in his hand. Deep crimson erupted from the end to cover his fingers and as he swore and glanced at the mess a sharp bolt of pain tore through his head and sent him screaming to the floor. The tubes of paint went flying as he dragged the table they lay on down with him, his fist tightening around the one still in his hand and squeezing more deep red over himself. He pressed his stained hands against the sides of his head in a futile attempt to crush out the agony but only succeeded in smearing red there too.

  His knees drew up to his chest but the pain just intensified. He was vaguely aware of Dean calling his name with a voice that was all terror and panic, but it was too far away, too quiet, too inconsequential compared to an agony the likes of which he had never experienced before. It rippled through him, radiated outwards, the deepest part of his brain as a sick epicentre for a terrible sensation that, by rights, he shouldn’t even be feeling. It didn’t make sense; since when could he feel pain? Especially pain like _this_.

  He cracked an eyelid to try to see the man he knew was kneeling beside him and just like that the rest of the world vanished.

  There was nothing besides himself. He was completely alone and still in an excruciating pain that was not numbed by the void of silent darkness that stretched on for eternity. The other eye opened in shock but the same blackness was all it saw. The pain was still there but it lessened now. Glad for the respite, Castiel pushed himself to his hands and knees, paused for breath as another flash of pain streaked through his brain, and then sat back on his haunches panting.

  He glanced down at his hands and was surprised to see that one was still stained in a bright and glistening red but it was no longer the texture or even the consistency of paint any more. It was darker, runnier and something about it screamed wrong, _wrong_ , **_wrong_**. The longer he looked the more it turned his stomach and if he had been able he was certain he would have thrown up then and there…

   Wherever there was.

  He tried wiping the stuff off with his other hand, the leg of his trousers, and eventually his previously pristine white shirt. The red came off of his hands but it left dark splotches on his clothes that looked altogether too ominous for his liking. He was about to try to do something about that when a light suddenly pierced the blackness, somewhere far off in the distance.

    It was soft and beckoning and without thinking Cas found himself climbing to his feet and walking towards it. It grew larger far quicker than he had been expecting and as he neared it he realised it wasn’t a light as such, but rather a window. On the other side a street illuminated by a softly setting sun teased him with its closeness and a warm summer breeze wafted the scents of early evening through to him. But when he reached out a hand to try to touch that world just slightly out of reach his fingers came across a strange resistance. There was no glass in the window, but nor was there nothing; rather it felt as he pushed his hand forwards that he was trying to reach through a thin but incredibly strong layer of plasticwrap that distended with his arm as he stretched it through the gap but would not allow him to join the world proper.

  He snapped his arm back disappointed and instead turned his attention to the scene growing on the other side. He thought the building he could see might be a bar or a club and when the doors opened suddenly to reveal three obviously drunk people, he was sure of it. The three supported each other in a line as they started down the street. Though they were obviously laughing it was silent. Castiel wondered if the barrier shut out sound for whatever reason and thought it odd that scents could bypass it but not the high peals of joy obvious from their high spirits. As he mused on the issue they walked down the road giggling, hit the edge of the frame of the window, and disappeared from sight.

  Castiel was confused. It didn’t make any sense. Why should this have appeared before him? Why was he watching drunk people walk down the-

   The door opened again. This time two people walked out arm looped in arm, and though they smiled fondly at one another there was nowhere near the level of drunken joviality just displayed in the three friends. They held the door open for two men who left just after them and, after shooting them a strangely disgusted look, walked away. The two crossed the road and came closer to where he stood, a silent observer, and with a jolt Castiel realised who he was looking at.

  Her orange hair was pulled back and his was neater, but without a doubt he was looking at Anna and there, holding her arm and laughing softly at something she said was… himself.

  His living self.

  He was watching his living self do things he didn’t remember with a sister he couldn’t recall and it was so strange to see this man who shared his face but not his mind, blissfully unaware of the shade of himself just inches away.

  Unlike with the previous three, this time the scene shifted as Anna and himself walked past and the window followed their progress. She seemed to be teasing him, urging him to lighten up, that bars were _fun, Castiel_ , but he didn’t seem to agree and in response to all her advising he simply rolled his eyes and shook his head gently.

  They reached a bend in the road and stopped. Anna placed her hands on his shoulders and stared imploringly up into her little brother’s eyes: eyes he was directing upwards and somewhere off to the right in good-natured exasperation. She said something and her face was tinged with concern. She must have said something that hit home because his living self’s face darkened and he met her eyes with a frown. He said something in return, spun on his heel, and began walking away. Anna called after him, reached after him, but living Castiel merely threw up a hand the ghost thought might be a dismissive farewell before rounding the corner and leaving.

  Anna stared after him for a moment or two, sighed visibly, and, shaking her head, walked away.

  The scene didn’t follow either of them. A grey pall descended over the image and it began to lose colour. It seeped out of the trees, the brown bricks of a wall, the red of tulips growing in what may have been a public park. It was as though a television had gotten interference because the image became strange, almost staticky before darkening more and more until he was looking at nothing more than another rectangle of darkness.

  The ghost ran his hands along the edge and lightly across the now dark film but nothing happened, no new images appeared.

  He didn’t understand. What had he just seen? And why? There was nothing out of the ordinary in what had been shown him. It looked to be nothing more than a normal evening. Perhaps he and his sister had gone out for a drink after work, and from the looks of it they had had a disagreement of some kind, but Cas didn’t have a clue as to what about.

  It didn’t make sense. His head felt foggy. Even his tongue felt strange in his mouth and it took an unspecified amount of time in this eternal void before he realised he was feeling the sharp aftertaste of alcohol in his mouth. It was disgusting but it was a sensation he never expected to experience in death and so he took it gladly, savoured the displeasure of it. And then it faded away as the image had; even the static was represented in a strange tingling, before that too was gone.

  His head hurt again. The pain had subsided until this point but now it was back, albeit softer than before. He felt distant from himself. The blackness around him seemed to close in and he shut his eyes against its inevitable collapse, just to open them again and be greeted with a Dean’s terrified face staring down at him. He blinked, groaned, and sat up. Dean heaved a great sigh of relief.

  “Oh thank God,” he was saying, holding a hand over his heart. “Don’t scare me like that. What the hell just happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” Castiel said, and it was the truth. The light here was a welcome change from the blackness but even so it burned his eyes slightly and he had to blink several more times to readjust to it. “It was strange.”

  “You’re telling me! You blacked out, dude. I didn’t even know you could _do_ that.”

  “Neither did I and I have to admit, it wasn’t pleasant. But…” He paused and everything he had just seen and experienced finally seemed to compute. “ _Oh_ ,” he said softly, almost as an exhale.  Dean looked confused.

  “Oh? Oh what? What happened?” Castiel glanced up at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

  “Dean,” he said in hushed tones as the full weight of what had occurred crashed over him, “I just saw one of my _memories_.”


	20. Chapter 20

  “Oh. Oh! Ok, wow, this is pretty huge, right?”

  Cas nodded in reply, a smile growing across his face as he climbed back to his feet. He looked as though he didn’t quite believe it and Dean couldn’t blame him for that; a memory, this was amazing!

  “So what did you see, Cas?” Dean moved back and leaned against the table Cas had been stacking his belongings on. “Anything useful?”

  The ghost seemed to consider this. He frowned, digging through what he had just witnessed, and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure exactly. It was like watching it through a window. Muted. But I know for sure that I saw myself,” he said, slowly, savouring the memory of what he had been like in life. “And I was with Anna. We were leaving a… I think it was a bar?”

  “Oh. Well. Cas, buddy, I never would have pegged you for the type.”

  “I didn’t look drunk if that’s what you’re implying. In fact I think Anna was the only reason I was there. I didn’t look like I was enjoying myself. And then…” He sighed. “I think we had an argument.”

   “You? Arguing? Well I never.” Cas treated him to a particularly blank stare until Dean cleared his throat and gestured for him to continue.

“Whatever she said, I guess I didn’t like it very much because it looked like I just walked away and left her there.”

“And that’s it? End of the mystical vision?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. You’d have thought it would be more helpful. Honestly, arguing siblings are hardly newsworthy. Sam and I piss off each other all the time.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which I said I’d call him later. Remind me to, would you?” The look that flickered across Cas’ face then was almost unreadable to the untrained eye but they had spent a good deal of time together and Dean was able to distinguish some of the nuances in there. “Don’t worry, your memory thing comes first. I just haven’t had time to talk to Sam – or anybody, come to think of it – in weeks and if I know my family I’m going to get an earful when I do.” That seemed to soften the ghost and his face shifted to display more openly the dim concern Dean had detected, plus a little embarrassment thrown in for good measure. 

 “I didn’t mean-“

“I know, don’t worry buddy. We’re going to figure you out.  I promised, didn’t I? And this is our first solid lead! So we need details. Clues. Everything you saw, everything you remembered, right down to what you were wearing.”

“What I was…” Cas’ face shifted again, this time to confusion. Then he seemed to retreat inwards; his eyes became blank, unseeing, his normally full lips thin and white and his hands hung loosely at his sides. Even as Dean realised his friend had silenced and turned to ask what was wrong the ghost gave a small jerk and came back to himself, refocusing on Dean and cocking his head. The frown that furrowed his brow never let up.

“Cas, buddy? You’re freaking me out.”

“What I was wearing,” he said in a strangely flat voice.

“Uh-“

“What I was  _wearing_ ,” he repeated but this time with noticeable emphasis on the final word. He gestured to himself as he spoke with wide eyes and a half-crazed look on his face.

 “Cas. Use your words.”

  “I didn’t think much of it at the time because why would I? I have no point of reference. But  _Dean_ ,” he said and that crazed look only seemed to intensify, “ _this_  is what I was wearing.”

It clicked then and Dean couldn’t help but let his own mouth slacken and eyes widen.

 “Wait, you mean…?”

“This is what I was wearing, plus a satchel or something – I’m not sure, I didn’t get a good look – but that’s not the point, the point is  _this is what I was wearing_ -”

“-the day you died. Oh man. Shit.”

 Neither spoke, merely looked at each other as they digested this new revelation. Nothing broke the quiet save the sound of rain continuing to lash against the windows and the howls of a wind that only seemed to cry louder. Dean covered his mouth with a hand and wiped it down, dragging his lip with it and held it there, open-mouthed and thinking. Cas watched him with a look of excitement in his eye but a mask of composure on his face. Impressive that he could manage that, considering.

  “Alright,” Dean finally managed, “so this is huge.” The ghost nodded. “I mean, major plot point huge.” More nodding. “So what do we do about it?” The nodding stopped.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Me neither. I suppose visiting your sister is still out of the question?”

 “Not unless you want to end up committed?”

 “Still very much do not.”

“Ok. Then we go through this memory. I tell you everything I see and we try to figure out what to do from there.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Mind made up, Dean pushed himself away from the table he had been leaning on and made his way towards the door. He paused partway over the threshold and turned back, conscious that the spirit wasn’t following him. “You not coming?”

“Oh. We’re doing this now?”

“Why not; good a time as any.”

Cas drifted after him. As he passed he cast a look side-long at the easel the artist had abandoned seemingly without a second thought and drew up short, turning to meet the eyes of his waiting friend and asking, “But what about your painting?”

  Dean gave it a fleeting, calculating look before shrugging and exiting the room. “Not feeling it anymore,” his voice said as he vanished from view. “I’ll do it later.”

Castiel lingered a moment longer. He stood in front of the easel and brushed his fingers gently across the still-wet surface. No paint came off on his fingers, no fingerprints marred the colours, but still, he felt close to it. There was something so inextricably Dean about it, even though at first glance it depicted nothing more than a sunny meadow. But he looked at it and the colours whirled together to create something overflowing with hope and light, with warm summer breezes and long lazy afternoons, with openness and freedom and damn if that wasn’t the most wonderful feeling to experience, if only for a moment, and if only through swirling pigments. The sky was wide and open, the grass long and flowing, the flowers vibrant and somehow even fragrant, and he wished more than anything that the rain outside would abate, and that he and Dean could go there together, to the place within the painting, to feel the warmth of the sun and the cool of the wind on their skin. Alive and together, warm and safe and side by side in the grass with hands intertwined  _together_.

 Then Dean called his name from another room and the moment snapped, like elastic pulled too far, and Cas was yanked back to the studio. If he still had blood he thought it might be rushing to his face right about now, and for once was glad it couldn’t. He couldn’t be thinking like this. This was wrong. 

  Dean called again, this time his voice tinged with concern, and Cas scrambled to push the thoughts he had been thinking deeper and deeper into the furthest corner of his mind. He trapped them there, bound and gagged, and walked away to find Dean, terrified that they would break free and ruin everything. He couldn’t jeopardise what they had together. He wouldn’t. Dean deserved so much more than what little he could offer. By all intents and purposes, he shouldn’t even still be around. That he was didn’t negate the base line of the matter: he was dead and Dean was not. He was wrong and unnatural and irrevocably lifeless and Dean, dear Dean, was not. And Castiel wouldn’t have it any other way.

He left the studio then, burying his true thoughts beneath a blank veneer as he drifted from room to room, still following the path a living person might take rather than shortcut through the walls. He didn’t mind that it took longer – preferred it even – as it gave him time to perfect the façade and act as though nothing in the world were wrong when, of course, everything was.

It was all well and good to wish and dream that in another time, in another life, he and Dean could maybe have had something, and the images were so sweet, and the possibilities intoxicating, but this was their reality, and their reality was cold and dead. There was nothing to be done about it, he reasoned, so why linger.

The irony of that reasoning, however, flew completely over his head and he gave it no further thought before leaving to locate Dean who, sure enough, was back in his favourite chair in the living room. He raised a hand in greeting and Cas returned it as he settled into his now usual place on the sofa.

“Thought you’d gotten lost,” Dean deadpanned.

“No. That’s not possible, I know my way around your house very well now.” He missed the eye-roll but the huff of laughter he caught and realised the sarcasm. 

“Yeah, alright.” He retrieved his laptop but didn’t start it up, merely set it upon the arm of the chair and rested his own on top of it. “So where do we start?”

Cas began retelling the whole memory. He tried to describe everything he could remember of it, including exactly what the other people he had seen looked like, how lively the building he and his sister had emerged from seemed to be, and the short expanse of road they had walked down together before they had split up and the memory crumbled to nothingness. Occasionally Dean would pipe in with a question or a clarification and Cas tried his hardest to answer. Partway through Dean realised how detailed the seemingly short memory was and opened his laptop to start taking notes, which Castiel considered a good idea and started over once more from the top.

After several minutes of very meticulous note taking Dean piped up. “You know,” he said, “you have a pretty good memory, Cas. Considering you’re, well you know, an  _amnesiac_.”

Castiel squinted at him for a moment and tried very hard not to take offense at the tactless nature of his delivery. In any case Dean didn’t seem to have noticed and Cas wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it. Instead he simply nodded in agreement and threw in the explanation he had been working up to since the memory re-emerged: “Maybe it’s because I don’t have anything else to distract me. No other memories. I have the few weeks I’ve spent here and just the one from my past. Perhaps it makes sense that that one should be particularly… vivid.”

Dean hummed a reply, not entirely convinced but he didn’t push the matter. For all he knew the ghost was right, but he still had some serious misgivings he wanted to lay out on the table. “I guess. But I still don’t trust that that ghost lady was all up in your head, messing around and doing God knows what – what if this is because of her? What if she, I don’t know, did something to you? You said then that you think you were in a memory, right? And now this? C’mon. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“If that’s the case then I’d have to thank her.”

“Thank her.”

“Yes. We weren’t getting anywhere before. Pull all the faces you want, it’s the truth.”

“Well I don’t like it.”

“Look, Dean, I know she hurt you-“

“You’re damn right she did! What if this is just more of her mind games?” Cas crossed his arms. He was becoming annoyed and didn’t bother conceal it.

“I don’t think so. I honestly think she’s helping me somehow. ‘Like me’, she said, remember?” A reluctant, almost sullen nod. “So maybe she recognised something we have in common and wanted to help.”

“I dunno man, this seems a lot like reaching.”

“Well it’s all we’ve got,” Cas said in clear exasperation and rubbed tension he knew wasn’t really there out of his temples. “Unless you can explain it.”

 To Dean’s credit he certainly tried but after a few false starts all he really managed was a defeated “No” and a sour look on his normally upbeat face. The two lapsed into silence and Castiel took the change to mentally replay the memory again and again. No matter how many times he walked himself through it, it was the same. They emerged, they walked, they fought, and the Castiel he had once been left his sister behind and disappeared. This must have been the last time she had seen him alive, he realised with some sadness and wondered how much she must regret them parting on such bad terms. He watched his retreating back once more but this time the sight was tinged with guilt and an unpleasant feeling deep in his stomach and so he rewound, focused on them laughing together, happy if just for a moment.

  Her eyes were bright with mirth and though his face didn’t show it as such, he could see the affection he had felt for her in it. When he was alive, it seemed, he had cared for his sister very much and looking at it now he realised that despite telling Dean that he didn’t think he was that person anymore, and despite declaring there was no need to dredge up the past, he couldn’t deny that getting a glimpse of it, of the man he was and the family he had, was hard to resist.

 Her face was animated and joyful, her eyes sparkled, her mouth stretched into a wide and easy smile. She was so happy and so much more real to him now than the stranger on the TV. Too real, he decided, to allow his selfishness to continue. He had to find out what had happened; not for him, but for her. And his brother, Balthazar, too. They deserved the truth of the matter. They deserved closure.

 So he would find it for them.


	21. Chapter 21

 The rain had finally stopped. Sunlight filtered in and refracted off of thousands of tiny raindrops still clinging to the outside of the window. The room, previously illuminated by Dean’s single standing lamp flooded with new light so bright it was almost aflame, and Castiel was convinced that if he dipped a hand into its rays he would be able to feel it burning. But he couldn’t, no matter how long he held his hand there. There was no warmth on his skin, no indication that he was even interfering with the light at all; the light continued through him and bathed the floor in its soft golden glow without so much as a hint of a Cas-shaped shadow.

  Dean watched out the side of his eye as Castiel slowly dragged his fingers through the light. He tried to be discreet but the ghost glanced up and he wasn’t quick enough looking away. Their eyes only met for a moment, but it was just long enough for Cas to know he had been looking. Not that he minded. If it had been anyone but the painter then, sure, Cas was certain he would have been embarrassed. But this was Dean, and Dean knew him – the current him – better than anyone else possibly could. The artist’s eyes flickered back and the ghost held his gaze, dropping his hand and twisting the side of his face into a genuine smile without once looking away. Dean seemed momentarily confused but returned the expression and turned back to his laptop amused.

  “So we’ve got your memory down,” he said as he scrolled through his notes. “But nothing in here is specific. Are you sure you don’t remember the name of the bar? Or the street? Anything I can actually use?”

   Cas seemed to consider it for a moment. He trawled through the admittedly short memory and rather than focusing on himself or his sister paid special attention to the backdrop. The name of the bar, ‘Limbo’, which was previously dark and nondescript on the brick wall, now seemed luminous when he actually paid attention to it. Limbo. That was apt, in a horrible sort of way.

   He repeated the name to Dean and cocked his head. “That’s all I’ve got.”

   From the look on Dean’s face that didn’t seem to be much of a problem. He typed something into the search bar and Cas drifted over to look. There seemed to be a map on the screen and Cas, curious, leaned in close. He didn’t recognise any of the names or road-plans on the strange white-and-green image and said as much, shrugging his shoulders and cheerfully berating Dean the shoddy quality of his map. Dean laughed and clicked something onscreen and suddenly it was an aerial map complete with trees and water and the faraway tops of little buildings.

   “Better,” he said, “but not by much. I’m afraid I don’t have a working knowledge of maps from the sky – no zooming in doesn’t help much either.”

   “Oh ye of little faith. Watch and learn.” Dean hovered the cursor over the image of a little orange person and clicked. The map zoomed and distorted and suddenly, quite suddenly, Castiel was looking at the street from his memory.

   He couldn’t help it – he gasped and jabbed a finger at the screen. He turned wordlessly to Dean though by the shape of his mouth and the size of his eyes words were certainly in there somewhere, he just didn’t seem able to get them out. Dean grinned and decided to help him along some.

   “I found it.”

   “You  _found_  it!”

   “I did.”

   “ _How_?!” The look on Castiel’s face was one of pure wonder and Dean couldn’t help but fall a little deeper in- wait, no. No he wasn’t doing that, remember? He killed the thought, swallowed it down and worked on turning back to the screen to hide his eyes. If he didn’t he knew they’d end up betraying him by doing something unmistakably romantic; something that couldn’t possibly be misconstrued as platonic. Something like staring deeply into them as though he was seeing an angel for the first time, for example, which he was doing right now and goddamn it, he had to  _turn away_.

   He broke eye-contact and stared unblinking at the street view he had pulled up. Pushing through the lump in his throat he gestured vaguely at the screen. “Oh, well, damn. I mean, it wasn’t easy.” He allowed his eyes to flit to Cas’ face to gauge the ghost’s response, but Cas was utterly transfixed by the screen and didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm. Dean didn’t mind. He chalked up to the whole ‘there are currently stars in his eyes’ thing anyway. He decided to cut his losses and move on.

   “Anyway, I figured it had to be somewhere in your old neighbourhood, and then, you know, there really aren’t very many places called Limbo – not even in Illinois.” He scratched at a spot on the curve of his jawline and shrugged. “Piece of cake.”

  Cas beamed at him. “Thank you Dean. This is incredible.”

   “Our first proper lead, yeah. Hey, maybe we can-“ He was interrupted by his phone buzzing on the side table. He picked it up and saw his brother smiling out of the contact photo. “Ok, hold that thought.” Cas nodded and Dean climbed to his feet and he slid right to accept the call. He pressed it to his ear and began walking in the direction of the hallway. “Sam. Hey man, what’s going on? No I’m just-“ His voice became muffled with distance as he left the room and although Cas could have probably eavesdropped if he wanted to, he afforded the artist his privacy. He returned his focus to the picture of the bar and raked his eyes over it hungrily, absorbing all the little details. The red of the door. The dark tint of the windows. The elegant script of the sign. The man in skinny jeans and a grey button up frozen with one foot on the pavement as he exited the bar.

   That caught Cas’ interest. The man wore an easy grin on his face as he gazed down the street and from the look on his face and the hand raised in greeting, he seemed to have seen someone he knew, perhaps even loved. Whoever it was they were out of frame and Castiel found then and there that there was nothing he wanted more than to see what the man was seeing: to see  _who_  he was seeing. It was overwhelming. All-encompassing. Compelling. He concentrated on those feelings, immersed himself in them and gave them life. He allowed them to be the only thing occupying his mind and the sensation of touch to be the only thing he wanted to feel. He willed sensation into his normally numb fingers and felt a familiar jolt that reminded him of the studio. Pins and needles like silent static lent him a physicality that was distinctly what he had used to tidy up.

   And it worked. When he reached out to push the mouse, it moved, and the cursor on the screen jumped.

   Dean was still in the hallway talking to his brother so there was nobody to celebrate with but Cas didn’t mind much. He celebrated himself with an inward smile and a proud shake of the mouse. Baby steps, he thought, but miraculous ones nonetheless.

   Now, how to move the image? Dean had pressed one of the little icons… No, not that one. Ah! The little arrow. That seemed to have- no that was too far. Too far, too- Jesus, where was this now? This didn’t even look like the same road. Cas was growing frustrated now and tried desperately to turn the camera around. There! Somehow he was at the complete other end of the street. That was strange. He clicked and dragged, feeling for all the world like he was pulling himself down the street until finally he was back where he’d started.

   The man in the doorway smiled out at him once more and delicately this time Cas rotated the camera and took a virtual step. Nothing. There was nothing there. The man was smiling at nothing. He rotated back. The man wasn’t even there anymore. How the hell had Dean put up with this program? It was useless.

  Cas was getting increasingly annoyed by this point and more than a little disappointed. He rotated the camera in a totally futile 360 degree sweep of the street and came up with more nothing. He did, however, have a nice view of the other side of the road which in his memory hadn’t existed at all; it was behind the camera, so to speak. Not that it mattered much. There was nothing but office space and a couple of shops opposite the bar – no wonder his memory had erased them.

  He was just about to let go of the mouse when he saw a familiar figure halfway down the previously unseen side of the road. The man in gray and he wasn’t alone. This time he was accompanied by a person in yellow and they walked together hand in hand away from the camera. Cas followed them and was able to get in front of them to see the look on their faces, the laughter splitting their mouths and the sheer adoration in their eyes. The man in gray looked at his companion like they were the rising sun and Cas felt a surprising tug deep in his chest. He knew those eyes. Had seen those eyes in hazel instead of brown.

  A breath he didn’t realise he had taken caught in his throat. His hand went numb and the mouse slipped unhindered through his fingers. It clattered against the keyboard and shocked him so badly he actually jumped. _Shit_. Dean had to have heard that. He fumbled for the mouse but his hand passed straight through. The screen still showed the two lovers and in the other room Dean was saying his goodbye’s to his brother. _Shit!_

 The ghost took another unnecessary but calming breath and exhaled slowly, shudderingly. He could hear footsteps on wood and knew Dean was coming. _Calm down_. All he had to do was nudge it, jump somewhere else – anywhere else – and it would be fine. Dean would never know he was pining over two strangers and the love in their eyes. He steeled himself, blocked out the footsteps that were getting louder, more immediate, and tried again.

  Dean entered the living room just as Cas grabbed the mouse and jumped the camera halfway down the street. He overshot the bar but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t where Dean had left off but it didn’t matter.

  “Woah, buddy. Where’s the fire?”

  Cas released the mouse and turned to meet his friend. He hoped the embarrassment he could feel burning through his skin wasn’t actually visible and was, not for the first time thankful he couldn’t blush. He squinted his eyes at Dean’s question in that way he was told he did and furrowing his brow as he considered the words.

  “There isn’t any fire, Dean.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. You don’t have to hide your porn on my account.”

  Well to that Cas simply had no idea what to say. He thought Dean might be joking from the barely concealed grin on his face and the twinkle in his eye, but couldn’t be sure. After all his choice of words were, if inaccurate, strangely close to the truth. When he opened his mouth a stammer came out.

  “N-no, I… I wasn’t-“

  “Cas. Seriously. You moved faster than a kid whose mom just walked in on them.” He raised an eyebrow and his grin spread. “Cas?”

   “It wasn’t that!”

  “Me thinks he doth protest too much. Well whatever, I don’t judge. Do what you want but, c’mon, at least wait until I’m out of the house next time.” He couldn’t help laughing and held up both hands defensively when Cas looked like he was getting ready to strangle him. “Hey, buddy, relax, I’m just teasing.” That seemed to pacify the ghost who merely hmph’ed, crossed his arms, and drifted to the couch to let Dean resume his chair. He pulled the laptop back onto his lap and nodded his head at the screen. “You exploring or something?”

 That worked.

  “Yes,” Cas said, grateful for the explanation. “I wanted to see what else was around but there isn’t much there beyond the bar and a few small shops.”

  “Hardly a bustling metropolis, huh? That’s ok, we can work with that. Might make things easier, actually.” He caught Cas’ questioning expression. “Think about it; how many places could you have possible gone in this deadbeat town?”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Mmhmm. So. Question is, what do we do now? I suggest a road trip.”

  He didn’t seem to be joking.

  “A road trip? Really?”

  “Sure, why not? If this is the last place you were seen, uh, _alive_ , then it’s probably a good idea to go poke around, don’t you think?”

  The idea didn’t sit right with Cas. “Isn’t this the police’s job?”

  Dean snorted. “You’ve been missing for over a month, Cas. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but they’re not doing a particularly good job. Besides, we’ve got insider info on our side; how many ghosts do you reckon work for the cops? Exactly. I rest my case.”

  “I guess…”

  “That’s the spirit. We can go tomorrow; how about that?”

  Now _that_ caught Cas off guard. “Tomorrow?” he said, not bothering to hide his shock. “But what about your gallery?”

 “It’ll still be there when we come home.” Cas didn’t comment that Dean assumed the ghost would be coming back with him, regardless of what their little trip uncovered. He also didn’t comment on the little flip his heart did at the idea that Dean considered this their home now. “Besides,” Dean added, “I’ve still got loads of time-“

  “Liar.”

  “Alright then, enough time. Look, I’ve made up my mind already and I’m going either way. I’d really rather you come with, it’s your crime scene after all. Besides, I already told Sammy that the reason he couldn’t come up tomorrow was because I was gonna be out of town. Don’t make me lie to my brother, Cas. I hate lying to my brother.”

  “That’s what that phonecall was about?” Dean nodded. “Dean, that’s not fair. I can’t come between you and Sam.”

  “Sam shwam. He’s a big boy, he’ll deal. And he can come up some other time; I already promised you we’d get to the bottom of your thing, and there’s no point delaying now that we’ve actually got something to act on.”

  Cas couldn’t argue with that. He had to admit, he was curious as to what they might find in this town. And more than a little scared. He shook his head when Dean asked if he wanted the laptop and watched as he closed it, stretched his arms and loudly cracked his knuckles. The ghost winced at the noise but let slide without comment. Then the painter set his computer aside and climbed back up to his feet. He crossed the room and pulled the curtains closed against the dark sky. The sun had set without Cas noticing and once more the only illumination on offer came from the lamp behind Dean’s armchair, which he turned off and plunged them both into darkness.

  “Bed I think,” he murmured and Cas could hear him easily navigate the room despite the gloom. Light spilled in from the hallway and Dean reached it, glancing back after the stationary ghost as he stood in the archway. “Bed?” he repeated and Cas had a moment where the word didn’t make sense; at least not how Dean had intended it. Then he nodded silently and followed Dean up the creaking staircase.

  They separated at the top. Dean gave a sleepy half-salute, half-wave and wished him a goodnight before vanishing into his room. Alone in the hallway Cas whispered his reply before entering the tiny room designated as his, where he sat in the dark, thinking. He snapped out of his reverie an unspecified amount of time later and mustered up the focus to switch on the small TV set Dean had installed for him, if not for anything more than something to look at.

  Castiel spent the rest of the night watching but not taking in whatever was on the small flickering screen. His thoughts were on tomorrow and what it might mean, not only for him, but for Dean too. What if they found out what had happened to him? What would they do when the mystery was solved?

And knowing the truth… Well. It might just change everything, mightn’t it?


	22. Chapter 22

  They left early the next morning.

  Dean had packed a small overnight bag just in case and threw it in the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel and pretending to check his mirrors as his spectral passenger carried out the motions of sitting down. With Castiel safely installed and Dean’s seatbelt clicked into place they pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. They turned right and right again and left their little neighbourhood behind.

  There were still puddles from the night before and they sparkled with early morning sunshine as the Impala splashed through them on its way out of town. The wheels sent water twinkling into the air and ripples that neither man nor ghost could see. The sky above was clear and cloudless and a light breeze ruffled whatever leaves were still on the trees lining either side of their suburban street. A few of the more golden ones rained down as they came loose in the wind. Pretty soon all the trees around here would be totally bare and winter would come in force.

  Inside the car it was quiet. Dean concentrated on driving though he knew these roads well by now and Castiel sat beside him, taking in the world outside the window as they passed it. Neither moved to turn on the radio and they simply enjoyed the silence of each other’s company. Within, however, it was far less quiet and each mind differed substantially.

  Dean wasn’t expecting much, truth be told. He focused on the road, considering the route and where to stop to buy gas. Perhaps he could order food to their motel room to save them an awkward trip out. Perhaps they could play cards or watch TV, hang out for the rest of the day until the wild goose chase tomorrow. It was a lead, and Dean was pleased for his friend, but realistically, what could they hope to find several weeks down the line that the police had missed? Best to look though, because what else could they do?

  Castiel though… Castiel was allowing himself to hope. His eyes followed the landscape blurring past but his mind roiled with endless possibilities. They were going to where he had last been seen alive. They were going now, to that town, to that bar; who knew what clue they could uncover. Maybe they could find a witness who hadn’t come forward. Maybe an indication as to where he might have gone when he left Anna. Maybe they could even do what the police hadn’t been able – maybe they could find  _him_.   

  The thought was invigorating. Electric. What if they did it? What if they actually did it? Wouldn’t it be incredible to give Anna and Balthazar closure?  _Himself_ closure?

  His imagination started to run away from him. Maybe this was what they had to do for him to move on, if that was the purpose of this. Solve the mystery, give him closure, poof, off he goes to whatever comes next. Heaven? Reincarnation? Nothingness? Considering he had been a ghost as long as his memory had previously allowed, strangely enough he hadn’t dwelled much on the idea of death or what came next. He didn’t think he was a particularly religious man now, if he ever had been in life, which meant that for all intents and purposes he was striding into the void and embracing nonexistence.

  Did he want that? Was that what this had all been leading to?

  Nothing?

  The thought wasn’t actually as comforting as he had hoped it would be. Nothing. Nonexistence. Never seeing the world again or watching the rain fall; no Dean to talk to, no music to listen to or paintings to watch unfold. He would blink out of reality like he had never even been there, and the worst part was he wouldn’t even know it had happened. Any of it. As far as he knew he would just…. stop. There one minute, nothing the next.

  Honestly, the whole idea was terrifying and Castiel nearly asked then and there if they could go home. But he bit his tongue and kept quiet, even as the desire to balk and flee and hide back in Dean’s house built into a substantial lump in his chest. This was what he had decided he wanted. To know. For Dean to know. More importantly for the family he didn’t remember to know.

  He may not have colourful memories of a childhood spent with them but they were people, plain and simple, who had suffered a loss. And a loss they couldn’t explain at that. They deserved to know where their son and brother, the man he had used to be, was, and how he had died. They deserved that and more and by God he was going to try his hardest to give it to them, whatever the cost.

    The car door slammed and Castiel snapped out of his spiralling reverie. They had stopped, the passenger seat beside him was empty, and Cas blinked slowly at it in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed them turning off of the road and into the gas station, never mind Dean exiting the car. But he had. And when the ghost twisted in his seat to look for him he saw the painter stood outside, filling the tank and staring off in the distance. He wore a tranquil look on his face Cas was loathe to disturb so he stayed quiet and simply watched him fill up the tank and replace the nozzle when he was done. Dean caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. He paid and Cas turned back in his seat, determined to see this thing of theirs through. The door creaked open and Dean climbed back in and they were away again. He pulled out onto the road and Cas settled back into his seat to allow the car to carry them forwards in the hope of discovering his past.

**

   They arrived in town a little before sunset and immediately checked into the closest motel. Neither cared much about looking for a hotel in town or somewhere with actual stars; this place was close, cheap, and had available rooms. Good enough for Dean.

    Surprising to both of them the motel room was nice. Nothing fancy – Dean couldn’t afford it, nor did he intend to stay longer than a couple of nights – but it was comfortable. His bag thrown on the floor and his shoes kicked off by the door, Dean collapsed face down on the bed and muttered something about getting some “goddamn shut-eye”. The ghost lowered himself into the only armchair in the room and smiled fondly at Dean’s back as it rose and fell with gentle snores. He let him sleep. Dean more than deserved it after all the driving he’d just done for him.

  There was a small television atop the dresser Cas knew Dean wouldn’t fill, but he didn’t turn it on. Not yet. Instead he settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and allowed himself to do the closest thing to sleep he could; he daydreamed. With his eyes closed and the room quiet except for Dean’s soft breathing he wondered what they might find or who might help them. He wondered if they were even on the right tracks, or if his fractured memory had been a tiny part of a much bigger picture: a picture of which, despite all his hopes and anticipations, he was mostly blind to. There was no way of knowing if after the events in his memory a whole chain of events had unfolded too vast for them to even attempt to follow in their amateur sleuthing. There was no way of knowing if he had even stayed in this area – for all they knew he had been kidnapped or gotten on a bus or done half a dozen different things to remove him from this sleepy little burg and this whole trip was a waste. There was no way of-

  No. He was getting off-course and doing that thing where he got himself so worried he almost wanted to quit, just to save himself the disappointment he convinced himself was coming. But no. There was no sense in derailing his own investigation before it even started. He relaxed the hands knotting themselves together and the brows creasing a valley in his forehead. His eyes flickered open and he was again greeted by the dark room and Dean’s shallow breathing. He didn’t need to know pain to realise that his muscles were being held taut so with a slow, measured exhalation, he let them unwind.

  Outside the wind rattled the window frame but it wasn’t at all the violent raging from the day before. This wind sounded reassuring, like a friend reminding him it was there, gently tapping on the glass. He listened to it for some time sat quietly in the dark, and allowed his concerns to melt away until he felt looser. Unburdened. Dean shifted in his sleep and murmured something but it was too muffled for Cas to hear. He didn’t mind.  He watched the painter shift an arm and curl his legs up closer to his chest and thought that he looked relaxed, and very small all of a sudden. Small and tired but alive and young and with an entire life ahead of him. The thought was a happy one but Castiel couldn’t deny that familiar coil of sadness from rearing its head and reminding him of all he would never have.

  In some ways Cas could barely imagine what it would be to be alive again, because despite the snippet of memory he had regained the concept was beyond his short experience of the world. All he could remember was weightlessness, intangibility. No sensation, no pain or hunger. What would it be like, he thought, to grow old, to touch someone and feel their warmth. To share a meal with someone in front of a fire or go walking on a blustery day and feel the wind tousle his hair. He wished he could remember what it had been like – what he had been like – when he was alive. He wondered if he was at all dissimilar to the man in his memory – the man whose face he shared. He wondered if Anna would know him, if she could see him, based on who he was behind his face. He didn’t think she would.

  His eyes roamed over Dean’s sprawled body and he couldn’t help but feel a small, sharp stab of envy. It wasn’t over for him. He had a life, a family, a future. Castiel was nothing; a phantom, walking unseen between life and death. Smoke in the wind. Fragile and impossible to pin down.

  He tried not to begrudge Dean his life, his future, and he tried to kill the envy invading his thoughts but it was hard. So hard. Dean would continue to breathe and to grow. He would marry one day, maybe, and have someone else to add to his already loving family. He had seen the picture hanging in the lounge – of course he had – and the smiles crafted in paint were no less genuine for the medium. Cas on the other hand… He knew the family he had left behind loved him, loved Castiel Novak, but he didn’t know them, didn’t love them; not as they deserved his love, anyway. They would mourn the man he had been but there was nothing for him to cry over in the night. There were no memories to visit, no trips to the beach or heated arguments over something trivial at the time but of the utmost importance to a child. The world would continue on without him and the number of people who know him would dwindle with time. He was a face in the paper, a name on the newsreader’s lips. A story without a satisfying enough end. A ghost.

  But if they were very, very lucky, tomorrow might change all that.

  Cas sighed and crossed his arms. The wind had died down outside though he hadn’t noticed it go. No longer did it tap against the glass or shake it in its frame. Dean muttered something as he rolled over and this time Cas thought heard his own name sighed against the sheets. The heart that he didn’t have skipped a beat and the blood it didn’t pump flooded to cheeks that couldn’t burn. He must have misheard. Must have. There was no way… Wishful thinking, that was all.

  But he had heard it… His name, the name Dean had given him, shortened and whispered in a dream. In a dream. He thought his stomach may have turned if he had one. It was a dream, nothing more. He had to stop himself from laughing out loud and pressed cold fingers against his mouth to muffle the sound.

  God, he was pathetic. He leaned back in the chair and brought up both hands to cover his eyes in an attempt to block out the source of his revived turmoil. It didn’t work. Even as he would have groaned he was aware of Dean’s need for rest and stopped. Even then he put the painter first. There was nothing for it; he stood abruptly, hands hanging at his sides and took a long look at the man’s still sleeping form. A sigh, inaudible to all but the dead, and Cas turned and strode through the door and into the night. The wind had indeed died down but leaves littered the courtyard and sat atop Dean’s precious car, mingling with new rain that failed to soak the ghost as he wandered idly over to a guardrail. A river flowed easily behind it; not a raging torrent of water, but a calm, steady flow that pulled detritus with it and cascaded over rocks and fallen branches alike.

  It was a solid night and he rested his pallid arms, illuminated by the soft orange light of a single streetlamp, on the barrier to watch the water go by. He could have fallen right through and into the water beyond if he allowed the strange almost-sensation in his arms to fade, but he didn’t. The river had purpose and a destination. It knew where it was going even if the water travelling its winding route did not. He wondered if he was the river or the water; was he carving his path or merely following it? The thought frightened him and he shrugged it off, turning his back on the river and leaning as casually against the railing as he could. He wrapped his arms around himself and considered not for the first time that there was a good reason people slept because being alone with ones thoughts night after night got old fast. There was something about the night, the lack of people and distraction that turned the mind inward and began to question everything, from life to one’s place in the universe, apparently. Castiel, for one, wasn’t sure he liked it, and decided the best thing to do was to ground himself once more.

  So he returned to Dean and the human things that accompanied him.

  Dean. His friend. The man he had come to trust with his story – patchwork as it was – and his life, or lack thereof, in a very intimate way. And yet that one word breathed against cotton sheets and he had fallen apart. To think, even after all this, after all his reasoning and logic – after swearing he could put this behind him and move on – one indication that he was on the other man’s mind and there it all went, crumbling around him as his metaphorical heart soars.

   He had had this conversation. He had had this same discussion just the other night and this could not be. There was no way.  The juxtaposition of their existence alone was enough to assure that, and besides, it wasn’t fair on Dean, no matter how the other man may or may not feel. And besides, let’s face it, Cas had no way of knowing. He was grabbing at a word that may have been his name, whispered in a dream by a man he had been with almost constantly for the last few weeks; of course it was possible the painter dreamed of him. That didn’t mean that his, well his feelings, were returned. They were friends. _Good_ friends. And dreams toss faces onto blank characters to create elaborate puppet shows without rhyme nor reason. There was nothing that may or may not be happening inside Dean’s head could be considered real.

  He sank to his haunches and hugged his knees, still leaning against the slick metal at his back and continued to roam the turmoil rocking his mind. This time he was glad he was not of this physical plane; the mud and crap dredged up by the rain would have assuredly wrecked his shoes and ruined the legs of his trousers, crouched in the filth as he was, and there was no knowing how disgusting the rail behind him was on a clean white shirt. There were some benefits, he supposed rather glumly, to this whole dead thing.

  But the cons… Well. They weighed out the pros tenfold.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed there. The rain stopped at some point but he didn’t notice. The sky softened and turned from dark, clouded blue to softened tones of peach and nectarine flesh. Across the lot a couple left early and drove past him as he climbed to his feet and brushed the front of his trousers unnecessarily clean. He ran a hand through his hair and had to swallow the voice behind his tongue urging him not to go back to the room, not yet, how could he face Dean now?

  But he could. And he would. He had to. The strange and altogether inconvenient feelings bubbling away in his chest were a distraction, and an unwelcome one at that. He crossed the lot in long, sure strides. He would push them down as he had before and seal them away even tighter that he had before. Hopefully this time they wouldn’t break the chains and run amok in his head; hopefully this time for sure he would be able to sever the ribbons of desire tying themselves ever tighter around the painter in his mind and in his heart.

  He stopped on the outside of the motel room door and knew, then and there, that no matter what he told himself and no matter the justifications and logic he tried to convince himself of, those ribbons were made of steel and winding themselves throughout everything he was. There would be no breaking them. But maybe… Maybe he could outlast them. And maybe when this was all over and he was stepping into whatever came next, maybe then he could set his selfish feelings aside and allow Dean to live the life free of spirits he knew he deserved.

  Maybe.

  Cas felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and thought that maybe, just maybe, that was something he could do. For Dean.

  He embraced the sudden light feeling spreading through his body and stepped through the door.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took long enough huh. There's not much left to go now, thank God. Hopefully I can get the rest finished soon

  Dean was up and the bed was empty. As Cas walked through the door he had a moment to register this fact before Dean, newly dressed and with a toothbrush clamped between his teeth, exited the tiny en suite. He didn’t jump or startle at the ghost’s sudden appearance. At first it had been hard to get used to, but he had spent several long days of having the man walking into any room from any direction without so much as a warning and, by now, it was to be expected. His did raise his hand in acknowledgement as he began rifling through his bag, pulling out a razor and some foam, before he returned to the bathroom to shave. Cas would have protested if he could - he liked the look of the light stubble that Dean had been decided to sport recently, and had been pleased to see it growing in - but it wasn’t his place and so he remained silent. He heard the tap run and Dean spit into the sink. Then came the scratch of the razor with a sharp hiss of breath and a muttered curse, and when he came scowling into the bedroom he sported a square of white paper stuck red where the blade had nicked him.

  The smile growing on Castiel’s lips died as the blood brought back vibrant memories of the last time Dean had bled. Vivid snapshots of red, endless red, and screaming that echoed in his ears and threatened to split his head in two. Then the sick, wet thud of Dean’s skull connecting with the floor, his chest punctured and scored by angry claws, and the seeping crimson that pooled around his head like a halo of gore. It was all happening in front of him again and there was nothing he could do to help. Just like before.

 Dean began repacking his bag and Cas could see the yellow bruises encircling his neck as the collar of his shirt shifted. The artist turned his head slightly and the cuts adorning his face that had been hidden by what Cas now recognised as strategic stubble were suddenly all too apparent. He knew countless more scored his arms and chest but they were hidden below plaid and the long sleeves of his undershirt; still unhealed, and indisputably bound to leave scars. Cas wondered if the cuts still hurt him but didn’t have the heart to ask - he didn’t think he could bear to hear Dean answer ‘yes’.

  “We’d better hit the road, don’t you think?”

  Cas hadn’t been expecting Dean to speak; the man said it to his bag more than to him, and the words almost passed him by, but Cas caught the tail-end and nodded in affirmation when Dean glanced over. He saw the softness of his smile and the fondness in his eyes and had to turn away, distracting himself by turning and twisting the tie he could not remove in his hands. Dean huffed a quiet laugh and slung his bag over his shoulder.

  “I’ll check us – well, me, I suppose – out then. Wait in the car?” Another nod and Cas followed Dean out of the room. The artist locked the door, told him he’d be ‘ _back in a few’_ and strolled off towards the front desk. Cas watched him go and remembered last night. For a moment he wavered and he wanted to follow, to always be beside Dean, but he remembered his decision and rather than buckle under the weight of it, it strengthened his resolve. He didn’t waste another moment. Turning on his heel he walked purposefully towards the Impala and climbed in. Though the car was silent and cold without Dean behind the wheel he made himself as comfortable as possible and waited for the painter to return, certain that this would be the day – God, he _hoped_ this would be the day – that everything would make sense at long last. He could give the Novak’s closure. He could give himself closure. It just meant giving up Dean in the process.

  He didn’t have to wait long for Dean to climb in beside him and start the engine. The painter made small talk as they drove along, the motel and its river dwindling in the distance, but Castiel could barely do more than nod and hum in agreement. It was coming to an end and he was acutely aware of the fact. After a while even Dean seemed to sense it and his attempts at idle conversation wound down until they sat in companionable silence.

 The landscape slid by and before long they arrived in the tiny town from Cas’ precious snapshot of memory. He didn’t recognise anything, nor did he expect to; the roads weren’t anything extraordinary, neither were the buildings. To any onlooker the place was entirely normal. Benign and bland. The Impala rolled slowly down the main street until they came to the junction they knew would lead to that one oh-so-important street. Dean turned left and Cas could see it. The bar, so much plainer in reality, was there, right there, and he couldn’t help staring as they drove past. Dean pulled up to the curb opposite and they sat there for a moment, just absorbing the fact that they were there and it was all very, very real.

  Then the rumble of the engine died and Dean turned to his friend.

 “So what’s the plan?” His voice was level, calm, and if he felt anything at all he kept it hidden behind a series of casual gestured and composed features. Castiel wasn’t sure he was doing as well. His face felt lax, shocked. They were there, but what were they supposed to do? He didn’t know. Dean seemed to read as much on his face because he sniffed, nodded to himself and shrugged.

  “Okay, no plan,” he said, but it wasn’t unkind. He bit his lip and surveyed the street around them. Towards the end, in front of them, the street split and he pointed it out to the ghost. “That’s where you left Anna right?” Cas nodded. “Maybe we should start there then. Unless you have an idea?” A shake.

 “No… No that sounds like a good idea.”

 “Alright then.” Dean started to get out of the car but Cas stopped him with a ‘ _wait’_ and a hand that went through his shoulder unhindered.

 “It’s early,” he said as he pulled back his hand, “so not many people are around. If you see anyone though-“

  “Yeah, I remember; use the phone.”

  “Alright. And don’t forget to-“

  “Cas. Dude. It’s okay, calm down. You’re fine, I’m fine, it’s all gonna be fine. Now let’s do this.” Cas nodded, mostly to assure himself and to crush the panic budding in his chest, and followed Dean out of the car. The painter winced at the cold wind that whipped along the street and, glancing up at the sky, began to blow air softly over his fingers in an attempt to warm them up. Unsatisfied he shoved them deep into the pocket of his hoodie and hunched his shoulders against the chill. “Winter’s coming, as they say.”

  “As who says?”

  “You know what, never mind.” He shook his head as in disbelief and started down the road, and Cas fell in step with him, puzzled but allowing him to drop it. Probably a reference, he thought as he turned the words over in his mind and considered them privately. Dean was full of them and Cas, with his fractured memory, rarely understood them. Or maybe that was just a flaw of his character. No way to know.

  They crossed the road and neared the bar but didn’t intend to go in, or even to linger outside for very long. Neither really thought there was much they could learn from the place; after all, if the police investigation hadn’t turned up any viable witnesses by now, they sincerely doubted they’d be able to. Better to focus on what they did know – that Castiel had split off from his sister, turned away down a different road, and had not been seen again since. They passed the doors Cas had seen himself exit in his memory and both men gave the window a cursory glance as they passed.

  Cas wanted to look in though. He hadn’t been walking – more like floating, with his feet slightly drawn up off of the floor – but as he glanced in the window he touched down and slowed his pace to a dawdle. He squinted through the glass but saw nothing beyond the ordinary; just an empty bar, too early for the crowd that it would draw later. The disappointment he felt was unwarranted, and confused him. He hadn’t really expected to see anything, had he? No. No, it was just a bar. Just a place he had been. There was nothing to see here.

  Dean continued on and had walked halfway down the street by the time Cas noticed he was gone. He gave the place one last look, turned, saw Dean leaving him even further behind and, leaving the empty bar behind, began walking to catch him up. Just as he fell instep with the artist and they began to walk the rest of the way side by side, Cas felt something he had never felt before. No that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a feeling, not really. It was warm and it burned in his mouth and his throat until his was coughing and laughing all at the same time and, _God_ , what a sensation! He could taste it. Taste! It was sharp and thick and bitter, but not altogether unpleasant. The laughter came stronger now and overpowered the coughing until he was bent double and sure tears were rolling down his face.

  And when he looked up the expression of incredulity on Dean’s face only served to make him laugh harder, but as all mirth does it ebbed and, slowly, broke down to nothing more than a breathy chuckle as he wiped at dry eyes and touched his tongue with the tip of one finger.

  “Wow,” he said, pulling back his hand and locking eyes with Dean. The artist, understandably, was staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Incredible.”

  “…Cas?”

  The ghost grinned and gazed at his finger like it was made of gold. Then he pressed it and the finger next to it over his cupid’s-bow lips and felt his smile grow wider.

  “Dude? What’s going on?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry Dean. It’s a little overwhelming but I think I can taste… alcohol?”

  That did it. Dean blinked once, twice, his mouth slightly agape and working as though to form words. When he managed it, all he could say was a very surprised “Oh!” And after a couple more tries, “Well that sure is… something.”

  Castiel was feeling a little more eloquent. “It’s amazing,” he was saying, oblivious to Dean’s uncharacteristic loss of words and beaming with every turn of phrase that spilled from his own lips. “I’ve never tasted anything before and this is… Well, it’s very strong. I don’t know what it is though – no point of reference – but it’s quite nice. It tastes warm. It burns, actually, but doesn’t scorch. It’s more like - like liquid sunshine on my tongue. Does that sound ridiculous o you?”

 “Ah… no. No, that actually sounds about right.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall as he inflected his words with a subtle touch of humour; “Didn’t think you were the kind to drink though.”

  Cas’ face remained blank for a beat, two, and then twisted into an expression that was somewhere between agreement and offence, though the novelty of taste – no matter how sharp or unpleasant it was – won out and his features melted back into that same soft, almost dreamy happiness. He touched a finger to his lips again and smiled, enjoying the sensation of taste and the afterthought of almost-warmth on his tongue. It was a nice change from the cold numbness he was used to.

   He wanted to enjoy the tingly burn for longer and he hoped it would never fade but, as with all things, it began to dissipate until his mouth cooled and the sensation of warming liquor was just another pale memory logged away in his head. Still, it had been a pleasant experience. And, with any luck – though he dared not voice his hopes – hopefully the first of more things to remember and experience.

  But if more was to come then that was still ahead of him and in the meantime they had only just started their independent investigation. In fact, he supposed, they should probably get on with that – they had been standing out in the cold for a good quarter of an hour, at least, and whilst one of them didn’t suffer from exposure, the other most certainly did. With a last lingering touch of his lips he dropped his hand and turned to his friend, anxious to get his attention.

  “Dean,” he said, but the artist wasn’t paying attention and didn’t catch it. Rather, his gaze was occupied with raking his eyes across the sleepy street and the one or two locals who had begun to stir, wrapped up against the quiet chill of the morning and making their way to whichever destination the day demanded. A man in dress trousers and a thick pullover crossed the deserted street and glanced his way as he passed, an odd expression on his face that broke as quickly as it was made and the man hurried away, checking his watch and picking up the pace with a curse. Dean watched him go with casual interest and when the man vanished around a corner, turned his attention back to Cas.

  “Hmm? Oh, sorry, did you say something?”

  “Yeah, I was-“

  “Hang on, Cas. Lemme just-“ He fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed it against his ear. “There we go. I think that guy saw me talking to thin air. Must’ve thought I was crazy.”

  “Or drunk.”

  “At eight in the morning?”

  “Stranger things.”

  “Granted. Anyway, what were you gonna say?”

  “That we should move on – don’t you think?”

  The painter nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t think we’ll find much more than your sudden taste for cheap whiskey.”

  Cas smiled and huffed a laugh and fell in step as Dean started walking again. The painter gave him what he clearly thought to be a casual look and a raised eyebrow as he not so subtly asked, “So is it still there? Can you still taste it?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said and shrugged in a _whatcha-gonna-do_ type motion, “it faded. But it was nice while it lasted.”

  “And no headache? Man, all the pleasure with no hangover – you ghosts have all the fun.”

  “If you call being dead fun,” Cas quipped as he tried to supress the twitching in the corners of his mouth. He didn’t manage it. “Then sure. Party on the spectral plane.”

   Neither expected Dean to all but explode with laughter. The young woman jogging past certainly didn’t and she practically fell off of the sidewalk as she passed him, clutching at her chest and staring with wide, shocked eyes. Dean tried to reassure her with fumbled apologies in an effort to get her to understand but it was too late: her quickly retreating back paid him no mind and he dreaded to think what she thought of him. He watched her pick up the pace and turn the corner and pressed the phone back against his head with a soft sigh.

  “Well,” he said with a shrug and a smile that wasn’t quite right, “that’s two – and both inside a half-hour! Impressive.”

  There wasn’t much for Cas to say so he didn’t try, just twisted his features sympathetically as they walked on and the bar dwindled into the distance behind them. With it went the sharp immediacy of taste and the glimpse of life Castiel had regained, if only for a moment, until all he had left to hold onto was a shadowy after-image; just one more fragmented memory to add to his disjointed personal archive.

  He didn’t voice these things to Dean, nor the now familiar sense of disappointment he was quickly becoming weary of. Rather, he smiled and laughed his quiet laugh whenever Dean tried to cheer himself up with something particularly witty and they continued on down the street together and nearly forgot the reason they had come.

  Or, at least, until they reached the fork in the road.

  The two men stopped walking without either making it a conscious decision. Dean allowed the phone at his ear to fall away as he turned to take in his friend’s reaction. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much of one. Cas’ stance was relaxed, his arms held loose at his sides and his features, usually twisted into a frown or a confused squint, were strangely clear. Dean didn’t know whether this was a good sign or a bad one. Either way, he decided to be proactive. He opened his mouth to ask if this was the place but was cut off by Cas suddenly saying “It was here”, and turning to Dean with a blank look in his eyes. “This is where Anna saw me for the last time.”

  To be fair, Dean did try to formulate an answer, but after a solid twenty seconds of fumbling for words that didn’t make themselves more eloquent no matter what angle he came at them from, he settled for a consolatory, “I know, buddy,” and joined in his friend in taking in the scene.

  The road split, just as it had in Cas’ memory. The road to the right seemed to direct back into town, with shops just now coming alive lining its street and people bustling along the pavements on their way to work. The path to the left, however, was abandoned. To Dean it looked like the sort of road that doesn’t really lead anywhere and he wondered why Castiel had chosen this route the night he had disappeared. Glancing at his friend he saw the question mirrored on his face and knew he was thinking the same thing. He cleared his throat.

   “So… left?”, he asked, though he knew the answer already, but Cas didn’t seem to hear him. He rubbed at his jaw absentmindedly and seemed to be alternating between staring left and right, down the path he had taken, and the one he never would. Dean wondered if he was reliving that short flash of memory and watching the woman he knew was his sister, but felt nothing personally for, walk away. He wondered if Cas was trying to remember her birthday, or that of their brother; whether her favourite flavour of ice cream was strawberry or rum and raisin, and whether she preferred tea to coffee. He wondered about the thousand other little details learned about our siblings from a lifetime spent together and the hole Cas must feel when confronted with the absence of anything.

 

   Most importantly he wondered if, in his mind, Cas was questioning his choice. It was here that the man Cas had been had made a decision that would turn out the be the worst of his life. It was here that this decision had started a chain of events that, though still unknown to the two of them, had somehow ultimately led to his death. It all hinged on that moment, at this intersection, and if Cas had just decided to go right instead of left… To go with Anna instead of striking out alone…  Well. Maybe he wouldn’t be stood here now, so many weeks later, a shadow of the man he had been before.

    A man he didn’t even know.

    Dean was surprised to find the implications of that different decision bittersweet. On the one hand, Cas would be with his family, safe and loved and  _alive. _ On the other, and a far more painful possibility by far, the two of them would have probably never met. It was unpleasant for Dean to consider and all the more confusing for it; after all, Dean would give anything for his friend to still be alive and back with his loved ones, but the thought of losing the best friend he had ever had hurt him far more deeply than he had ever expected.

   He knew it wasn’t worth dwelling on - what had happened had happened, and they would deal as best they could – but he couldn’t help it. He wondered if, given the choice, Cas would choose the family he didn’t know over him and  _wow_  was that selfish, far too selfish, and Dean felt himself burn with shame. Of _course_  Cas would go back to his family if he could. If it were possible, if even the remotest chance existed, even Dean would take it. For Cas. So that he could be the man he used to be and live the life he should have lived.

   In the few moments it took for these things to tumble through and unsettle Dean’s mind, his question seemed to have finally registered with the ghost. He jerked one shoulder in a quick shrug and murmured his assent. “Left,” he said, finally, and met Dean’s eyes with a half-smile that hid whatever he was feeling behind it. “We go left.”

   Dean nodded, relieved, and jerked his thumb towards the road he knew they had to go down.

   “Ok then,” he said, “Left it is,” and started down the road on the left.

   He made it a solid twenty feet before realising he was walking alone and when he glanced back he saw that Cas hadn’t moved. The ghost stood with his arms wrapped tightly around himself and his feet dangling a few inches off the floor. With his head bowed and from this distance he seemed to be perfectly, unnaturally still, and not doing much of anything from where Dean stood. As Dean drew nearer, however, he could see that wasn’t quite true.

  Cas’ eyes were tightly shut and his lips moved fervently yet soundlessly. That struck Dean as odd; in all the time they had spent together he had never considered that Cas, with no memory and no strong ties to anything in particular, might be religious. He sure hadn’t got it from staying with him – Dean was as atheist as they came, and content with that. He wasn’t opposed to the idea of a God as such, merely thought that if such a being existed it would have far better things to do than police the virtues of insignificant mortals such as themselves. As for an afterlife… Well, Cas’ entire existence sure threw a spanner in the works on that front; if he was here, the question arose, was there then a heaven to move onto? Or, if and when he vanished from this world, would he disintegrate into atoms, no more than the vanishing imprint of a deceased mind? He didn’t know. Nor did he want to consider it too closely.

   Whatever he believed aside, he knew better than to interrupt someone at prayer. As a kid he’d been smacked upside the head enough times at dinner growing up to stop that particular urge and, besides, who was he to mess with a dead man’s last desperate plea to his God?

  He let him have his time and the sun peaked above them, turning late morning into early noon and the two novice investigators once more continued their foray into the unknown.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this one took a long time - I don't even know why, I've been itching to write the coming scenes for ten years. Oh my god it's been ten years. Anyway. This thing is still going and I'm gonna finish it, just bear with me.
> 
> Edit: A little something I drew. He's actually looking pretty decent here. Not too beat up at all. And, no, he doesn't usually look turquoise, I just like that look from when HiNaBN was still a thing. 
> 
> http://asphodelethe.tumblr.com/image/132219877503

 The road meandered on for quite some time before breaking away from the side of the town, away from the cars and the windows and the occasional curious onlooker, and had decided, quite at random, to shoot off in a direction neither man, living or dead, had expected.

  The grass grew long around here and in many places had begun to take back a road that was clearly not in use any more. It was potholed and gravelly; clearly nobody had driven on it for quite some time. In some places entire bushes stretched out over it and Dean took the wiser option of walking in the centre of the road. Cas didn’t care, just ploughed straight through the offending flora.

  Intangibility had its perks.

  But something about this place was strange, though neither man nor ghost seemed confident enough in what it was to afford it a name. They walked in uneasy silence and tried their best to ignore it. Every so often one of them would make the occasional uncertain remark, attempting to lighten the sudden shift in atmosphere, but it never landed well, and the short, stilted “ _ha ha_ ” that replied echoed its lack of mirth.

  They walked on. Cas took the lead, as he had this entire path, and he seemed to be searching for something. Cas folded his arms around himself and shivered, visibly. The ghost looked troubled, thinking, but when Dean asked if he was ok, all he got was a half-smile and a nod.

  It seemed to grow dimmer here, though that didn’t make any sense. Away from the town, this road – or, as it turned out, it was really more of a lane, - was largely open, save for the towering hedgerow to the left and the massive trees scattered about that grew up and over wherever they best saw fit. Away from the town, and away from the people, you would never have guessed that this strange meandering path was within fifty miles of anywhere inhabited. Even the birds were softer, quieter, out here, and the sounds of town had tapered off until they were more of an afterimage than a part of the ambience.  

  They hadn’t heard a car in fifteen minutes. A voice in twenty. Except for each other, and the muted noises of nature, the path was silent. Forgotten.

  Except by them.

  Both in the road and stuffed into the hedgerow lay crushed beer cans, empty bottles and discarded chocolate wrappers. In places there were even random scatterings of discarded cigarette butts that looked half-smoked and hurriedly put out. Dean chalked it all up to teens sneaking off to drink and smoke where parents wouldn’t see them and remembered doing something similar when he was young. He had liked the taste of alcohol and had kept that going, but he had never liked the taste of smoke and vowed never to touch one again.

  Sam had been much the same, or so Dean had initially thought. But there were occasions when he had caught his little brother toying with a lighter or fiddling with something in his pocket before excusing himself to go outside for ‘a breath of fresh air’. Eventually it had been too much for Dean to ignore and he had followed, catching his brother crushing a spent filter beneath his shoe before coming back into the house, and he had completely blown his top. They fought, exchanging angry, hushed words and mean-spirited accusations, but Dean had eventually come out on top by invoking the timeless “ _what would Mom say_ ,” argument. It never failed. It had been underhanded, perhaps, maybe even snitchy, but it was necessary. Besides, he never saw his brother smoke again after that, nor did he ever smell it on his clothes, but he still kept a lookout. Just in case.

   He smiled fondly at the memory. Sam had been so angry, and then so worried. He had never wanted to disappoint their mother, ever since he was tiny and had begged Dean not to tell her. He wondered if Sam had kept his promise at college, where no one could stop him. There was nothing he could do from here if he’d started up again. 

    God he missed his brother. He got texts sometimes, but he didn’t hear from the kid as often as he would have liked. And that trip he had planned had never come to fruition. There was a phone call and a “ _sorry I can’t come down, I’ve got this big paper to finish_ ”, but it was ok. He didn’t mind. He figured Sam was concentrating on other things – like flirting with this girl Jess he had mentioned one time,  _attaboy_  – and anyway, he’d rather not worry his brother about the crap in Dean’s life he had pointedly  _not_  told him about. He didn’t think he could cope if Sammy thought him crazy. Better the kid was left alone to enjoy his own life, and Dean would manage. Could manage.  _Had_  managed.

  He had Cas, after all.

  Speaking of which, Cas seemed to have drifted on without him and Dean had to put on a burst of speed to catch up. Out here he didn’t have anyone to pretend for so he tucked his phone away and focused on not tripping over the uneven, overgrown terrain as he jogged. As he accelerated he realised Cas had stopped and was now stood, side-on, staring at something out of Dean’s field of vision. Whatever it was was hidden by years of uncut tree growth that spilled up and out on long, golden-leafed branches.

  Nearing him and slowing Dean was able to see beyond the mess of wood and bark and saw that the road suddenly split off here, curving to the left and barred only by an old metal gate. Litter and foliage grew thick here too, both outside and within the gate and Dean could only assume kids came out a little further to be certain they were out of view of their parents. It made sense. Looking back, the town was all-but obscured.

  A chill went up his spine that was in no way related to the icy autumn breeze busy shaking dead leaves from sleeping branches. This is where Cas had come the night he died. But why? Why would he have walked this far from town, to be somewhere so secluded? But, more importantly, why had he died here?

  Dean glanced at his friend and saw the same confusion echoed on his face. The difference was that the questions worn on the ghost’s face were mixed inseparably with a host of other subtle emotions that took real effort to decipher. Cas’ brows were knitted but his eyes were wide and staring, unblinking, and his mouth was pressed together into a hard, thin line so tight he appeared almost lipless. Combined they suggested someone rooted to the spot in apprehension, but the real giveaway were the hands Cas held balled at his side. They trembled ever so slightly and it was in that moment that Dean understood how deeply this place was affecting him even before they entered and, honestly, he should have seen it coming.

  He had never wished more for the ability to rest his hand comfortingly on Cas’ shoulder, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t. But this gift of his he had never wanted allowed them to talk and perhaps that would be enough.

  “You alright?” he asked, knowing full-well he wasn’t. Conversation was strange, wasn’t it? Full of redundancies nobody needed but seemed loath to do away with. In any case it allowed Cas a moment to come back to himself, compartmentalise, and turn blinking to his friend.

  “Yeah,” he managed, though his eyes kept returning to the gate and what lay beyond. “Just…” He gestured lamely, words failing him, and ended up shrugging. Dean could relate.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s weird being here, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s familiar. But sort of in the way you remember places you visit in dreams. Hazy, but I know that beyond this gate…” He began walking forwards and passed through the gate. Dean followed, planting his hands firmly on the uppermost bar and vaulting effortlessly over. He scurried to keep up and fell in-step.

  “Beyond this gate…?”

  “That.” Dean followed the finger and stopped dead in his tracks.

   A warehouse stood before them, old and decrepit and hidden away in overgrowth and morning mist. It looked to be part of some kind of factory complex though long out of use and several years deserted.  An ugly building, it was made even more so by the obvious damage inattention had afforded it. Weeds and grasses grew out of whatever crack in the forecourt they wished and twisting, creeping ivy seemed intent on smothering every inch of brown industrial brick it could get its tendrils on.

   This place was weird. Wrong. It felt strange and heavy and rotten though he couldn’t put his finger on why. As they grew closer and closer the feeling in his gut darkened and spoiled until he felt physically sick and he had no choice but to stop walking for fear of throwing up. Hands on his knees he bent over and took several deep breaths sucked through his teeth and blown out through pursed lips. His mother had taught him to breathe like that when he was young and still prone to car-sickness, and he was glad the lesson had stuck. Gradually the feeling in his stomach calmed and he was able to raise his head.

  Cas had gone on and was now stood a good twenty feet ahead, still and staring at the warehouse with a strange hunger on his face and it was a look that Dean didn’t like. For some reason it made him feel uneasy.

  Come to think of it this whole place made him feel uneasy. His stomach had calmed for the time being but as he looked again at the warehouse it suddenly reared up and threatened to spill. He grabbed at his mouth, screwed up his eyes and groaned. This was worse than food-poisoning. What on Earth was causing it? He didn’t know. It didn’t make sense; he wasn’t ill or hungover, and he hadn’t eaten anything that could have resulted in  _this_. He tried cracking an eyelid but as soon as he focused in on the faded brown brickwork his stomach gave a great heave and his breakfast coated the floor.

  “Ah…”

   Another wave of nausea hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut and he keeled over, landing heavily on his knees and clutching at his stomach. He groaned even as he tried to laugh it off but the feeling became too much and he bent double, his forehead pressed firmly against the ground.

  “Dean? What’s happening? Are you ok?”

   The painter raised a shaky thumbs-up and gave another small moan as he tried to keep whatever was left in his stomach,  _in his stomach_. It seemed to be working for the time-being but he didn’t trust himself not to hurl again. This was not how he had expected this day to go.

  “Are you sick?”

  He shook his head, took a deep breath and managed a soft, “Don’t think so.”

  “Then what…?”

  He pointed at the warehouse, head still down, and Cas turned to look. His brows met in confusion.

  “The building? But why would that…?“

  “Feels wrong,” he said and spat to clear the taste of bile from his mouth. “Bad.”

   Cas honestly didn’t know how to reply to that. In fact, he didn’t much know what to do at all. At first he just stood there and listened to his friend groan but that made him feel useless. Eventually he crouched down beside him and at a loss of what else to do willed his hand solid enough to place on his back in what he hoped was a consolatory gesture. A shiver ran the length of Dean’s hunched body the moment his fingers made contact and Castiel almost pulled back, but in the second it took to process the decision the soft groan coming from Dean abated. Cas couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought that Dean even leaned into his touch.

  They stayed like that for a minute or maybe two, Cas wasn’t really sure, and eventually Dean managed to lift his head. He blinked several times as though to clear some invisible obstruction and frowned when it didn’t seem to work. Neither did rubbing at his eyes until they wept and when he turned squinting to Castiel the wetness spilling down his cheeks looking like tears.

  Cas didn’t like it. Something was very, very wrong.

  “Dean?” he asked, gently, and watched Dean swivel his head as he tracked the sound of his voice. “What is it?”

  Dean didn’t answer to begin with and when he did it was with an unsteady tone to his voice. “I don’t know,” he said, eventually. ”I can’t see properly. Everything’s foggy and… distorted.” He stared at Cas but his eyes were unfocused. “It’s like looking through misty glass and I can’t-“ His pupils suddenly dilated and he let out a yell, stumbling backwards and staring at his friend in wide-eyed shock. “ _Woah!”_

  “Dean?” Cas reached for him but it just drove Dean further back. “What?” asked Cas, the worry in his voice verging on panic. “ _What is it_?”

  But Dean couldn’t reply. He was frowning deeply and shaking his head slowly back and forth as he stared in disbelief at his friend’s face.

  His face… Castiel touched a finger to his cheek and, to his surprise, felt something there. When he drew it back his normally pale, almost translucent skin was wet and tacky with congealed red so dark it was almost black.

  Blood. There was blood.

  Castiel stared at it emotionlessly, processing it, and then slowly reached up with his whole hand. The gore-encrusted thing he drew back was enough to snap him out of his silence.

  “Oh,” he said. And then, “Oh  _God_ …”

  He dropped his gore-smeared hand to his chest and tried wiping it off on his shirt, only to glance down and see red stains already there. His eyes snapped up and locked in on Dean’s.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, though he thought he might already know the answer.

   “It’s not… ah… It’s not actually that bad,” Dean said and the hoarse, embarrassed laugh that followed seemed directed at himself. “I’d say it was more of a  _shock_  than anything. Wasn’t expecting it. Sorry – didn’t mean to freak you out.”

   Cas nodded and glanced down again at his reddened hand again. “So what do you see?”

   The painter pulled a face and winced. “Well it’s… You’re kind of a mess,” he said, “Someone really beat you up, man.”

  Another nod. “The blood?”

  “Your nose looks broken,” he said, pointing at his own and peering closer, “and it’s bleeding pretty bad. Uh… you’ve got a gash above your eye and a split lip. Open your mouth? Yeah. Couple teeth knocked out too.” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled short and sharp. “It’s actually kind of hard to look at you. You sorta remind me of _her_.”

   “Oh. Sorry.”

   “No, no, it’s not your fault. I’m- Ah, I didn’t mean… Sorry.”

   Cas shrugged and crossed his arms. “It’s fine. But it is interesting though, isn’t it,” he said.

  “What, you looking like you went ten rounds with Mohammed Ali all of a sudden? I’d say.”

  “I wonder why. Do you think this means we’re getting close? Like one of those, you know, _‘warmer, warmer, boiling_ ’ kinds of things?”

  “Damned if I know, but if it is I could really do without all the blood, to be perfectly honest.”

  “I don’t think I can turn it off.”

  “No, me neither. Well, let’s just hope it’s dark inside that place because _damn_ if you don’t look like mincemeat right now. It’s really off-putting.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who I assume got the shit kicked out of him." He h'mmed. "That’s a point, do you actually feel any of that or are you still numb?”

  “Numb, thankfully. I’m glad for all the clues and sensations and things but if this is as bad as you say then not feeling it is absolutely fine by me.”

  “Yeah no kidding.”

  The two lapsed into quiet and once more regarded the warehouse; Dean with an ever-growing sense of wariness but Cas, this time, with redoubled interest. It didn’t take long for the ghost to start moving towards it again; the only difference being this time he left penny-sized droplets of blood in his wake. Idly Dean wondered if anyone else were around whether they’d be able to see them too before reluctantly starting after his friend.

  The nausea seemed to have gone for now and he was immeasurably glad for it but the feeling of wrongness prevailed. It felt downright sinister and the fight-or-flight, primal part of his brain screamed at him to _turn around, flee, leave this place_. But he couldn’t. He wished he could tell Cas that they didn’t need to go in there. They could just get back in the car, right now, and he could drive them home, far away from this place, so that the could be safe and unconcerned with dead things…

  But he couldn’t.

  Cas did need to go in there. And so did he. They had started this thing together and they were damn well going to finish it together. He was absolutely certain they were close to answers – their first _real_ answers – and there was no way Dean was going to abandon his friend now, never mind what his lizard brain screeched.

   So when it came time to brush the foliage away from the rusted-up side entrance and enter the musty blackness within, Dean only hesitated for a second, and then dove right in.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I'm still alive.  
> This dumb chapter has been in my document for, what, six months?? And I just finished it ten minutes ago? That's terrible. Still, now I've had a rush of interest in finishing it, maybe the whole damn thing will be soon.

The warehouse interior was just as one would expect; overgrown, dank and very dark. Narrow beams of light found their way in through cracks and gaps in the ceiling and tendrils of that same ivy wove and twisted through shattered windows high above the main floor. Water dripped from somewhere above and hit something metallic below; a steady, echoing sound that paradoxically reinforced and reduced the utter seclusion of the place. Moving further into the room revealed pallets littering the floor, some still stacked high with whatever products this place had housed, others empty and forgotten. One or two shadows that might have been forklifts lurked towards the back and Dean wondered why they hadn’t been salvaged. Not that it mattered. He had other things to concern himself with.

Castiel drifted ahead and Dean followed slowly behind. This place unnerved him even more inside. The quiet pierced by that intermittent dripping, the darkness, bleakness; he hated it. And then a sound made him jerk his attention from the suspicious stain he had been examining.

“Did you say something?”

Cas turned, a perplexed look on his face.

“No?”

“Oh. I thought I heard… It sounded like a whisper but… No. No, it was nothing, never mind.”

Cas seemed to accept that and they continued deeper into the warehouse. Dean’s booted footsteps rang out against the concrete floor and mingled with the metallic splashes that seemed to be increasing in volume. As he rounded a pallet stacked high with drooping cardboard the noise came again. A voice, he was sure of it, whispering to him. He froze on the spot and strained his ears to listen but he couldn’t detect words in the breathy sigh. Judging by Cas’ failure to question it, the ghost didn’t seem to be aware of it, whatever it was.

But Dean stopped, listened, waited for more to come, and it did. A sigh at first that gradually grew into a mumble and from there in volume until the voice, or whatever it was, screamed at him. He clapped his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block it out, but now that it had found someone to listen it didn’t seem content to return to whispers.

He realised that this voice, or whatever it was, felt something like tinnitus; not a noise, per say, but more like the suggestion of noise located entirely within the confines of his own head. Dean had never experienced tinnitus before but he thought he might now have an idea of what his mother had complained of all these years. The not-noise grew and grew until he was clutching his head between two shaking hands and whimpering – a fact he knew only through the shudders wracking his body as the sounds he made were drowned out completely by his internal din. It grew until his eyes were pressed tightly shut, his head bowed, his knees hitting the floor for the second time in too short an interval. It grew until he was certain his head would explode from it until, just like that, everything was silent.

Totally, undeniably silent.

People say that a lot, but they never really mean it. All the conversation in a room dying and the sudden lack of any and all audio are not, nor will they ever be, the same thing. And that was what happened here. All ambient noise, including the noise we don’t even realise we are hearing, dropped away until no sound whatsoever seemed to reach them. Glancing up Dean could still see those steady drops of water fall but the echo of their impact never came. There were no bird calls from outside, no skitter of rats or other vermin amongst the pallets and even the growing wind gently swinging the creaky door behind them was noiseless. The silence was absolute and unbroken. It persevered.

It was like wading into the ocean and expecting there to be more sand beneath your feet, but the water is suddenly black and there is nothing but the abyss below you. So you panic and you scramble back to shore and shudder at the thought of all that empty darkness beneath you, only the problem is that it wasn’t empty at all – not one bit.

So he tried to do that. He tried to swim back to shore and bury his feet in the warmth of the beach the only way he could; he focused in on Cas and willed the sound to come back. He could see his friend’s lips moving, but no sound came out. He was mute and when Dean opened his own mouth to voice his terror he found himself just as voiceless.

His fear must have been obvious because echoed on Cas’ face was a mirror of his own. It was reassuring, so much as it could be in this situation; that his friend was experiencing the same thing he was. And yet, even as he watched Cas’ features twisted further until they settled into something sympathetic rather than frightened. Soothing. He made small calming motions with his hands and when Dean attempted to read his lips he got the gist that his friend was trying to reassure him. “Everything’s OK, Dean”, he seemed to be saying. “Don’t worry, you’re okay.”

It didn’t help much but at least there was solidarity. He attempted a small smile and saw Cas continue to mouth, “What’s wrong?”

That brought him up short. What did that…? Oh. Oh. Understanding hit him like a freight train.

The world wasn’t soundless for Cas. He could still hear. The fear Dean had seen in his eyes was born from worry at Dean’s sudden panic, perhaps exacerbated by apprehension of an old abandoned building and what they might find within, but it wasn’t from the world suddenly revolving silent. Not like it suddenly was for him.  
He tried to voice his terror again but couldn’t be sure his mouth was granting sound to the words his lips formed. He stared desperately at Cas, willing his friend to understand, hoping that his words had made it through, and saw the worry develop into nothing short of pure distress. That was reassuring. In a way.

Cas came closer, making his hands as solid he could manage before clasping Dean on either shoulder, staring into his eyes and repeating over and over the same few words: “It’s ok.”

It wasn’t and Cas knew that. Hell, Dean knew Cas knew that, but his friend had very few things he could do for him. Reassurance, he realised, was the best he could manage and so he accepted it, allowing himself to collapse into Cas’ frigid embrace and try to numb the rotten feeling mounting in his gut for the second time in too short a time. The ghost supported him as best he could, repeating his mantra over and over and hoping it was getting through to his suddenly deafened friend.

***

Minutes crawled by in silence. Dean was just starting to believe that this was it, he was deaf, now and forever, when a single, sharp note rang through the warehouse. His head jerked up, eyes searching wildly for the source.

The water drops. He could hear them again.

Another fell and the note rang again, quieter this time, but just as pure as the first. It reverberated through the space until it echoed through Dean and his face split into a grin and then a laugh.

“Dean?”

He could hear that too; Cas’ worried voice.

He laughed again.

“I’m ok Cas,” he managed. The ghost watched him through squinted eyes for a moment before helping him to his feet. Dean rubbed at his ears then, nonchalantly, his eyes. Cas pretended not to see the redness there.

“What happened?” he asked and wasn’t particularly reassured at Dean’s exaggerated shrug and accompanying, baffled head-shake.

“Damned if I know. Everything just went… silent. Dead silent. It was horrible.”

“But why? That doesn’t make any sense.”

That shrug again, this time followed by Dean sitting down on one of the old, abandoned wooden crates. Cas thought it best his friend had time to recover from… whatever had just happened. But just what had happened, and why? It didn’t make any sense. Why would one of Dean’s senses suddenly stop working? Surely there was nothing here that could do that to a person? Surely all the people who had visited this place couldn’t have left in sudden, inexplicable silence? That didn’t make any-

Hold on. This place. More specifically, Dean and this place. Perhaps... Perhaps Dean’s senses had been protecting him from whatever energy or presence resided here, perhaps even as some sort of defence?

It was a strange thought but, he justified as he relayed it to his friend, what about the two of them wasn’t strange? Dean had laughed tiredly and nodded.  
“You’re preaching to the damn choir, man. Now how about we do what we came here to do.”

“Only if you’re feeling up for it,” Cas had tried, but Dean had cut him off -

“Hell, if it gets us out of here faster, I’m the picture of health.” –

and started walking without another word. The ghost followed, concerned, but just as eager to complete their amateur sleuthing if it meant getting his friend to safety. He didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary; not if it meant endangering Dean.

  It didn't take long for them to come to the foot of a set of metal stairs set against the rear wall. Glancing up it seemed pretty obvious that they lead up to some kind of overseer’s office. Staring out over the warehouse floor with dark, unshuttered eyes, it didn’t look very friendly but when Cas didn't even pause before mounting the bottom step, Dean knew instantly that this was where they needed to go. He followed, glancing up at the foreboding structure with growing unease and wishing with everything he had that they didn’t have to go up there.

  No such luck.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So promising the next installment would be up in a week or so was a filthy, filthy lie. Just a short chapter this time but good God did it ever kick my ass. I'm not even sure why? I basically had this thing in two parts that just... did not mesh... And they both ended up really short with the ending thing happening sooner than I expected so eventually I just went with it, because I can.
> 
> Anyway. Rolling on towards the end now. Can't wait, this has been going for well over a year and I'm looking forward to finishing and moving on.

   It was a surprisingly spacious room, much larger than it appeared from the factory floor. It wasn’t particularly wide, only about eight feet across, but lengthways it stretched until the far end vanished in the gloom. Once upon a time it must have been some kind of office – perhaps for a foreman or administrator – but it, like the rest of the factory, had been long since abandoned.

  The room was pitch black inside. Heavy blinds covered the windows and where beams of light pinpricked the ceiling of the warehouse floor, in here there was nothing. Nothing but the soft, blueish glow Cas didn’t even know he exuded to cast a dim illumination; not much, but enough. Strange that neither of them had noticed it earlier, but Dean didn’t give it much thought. It allowed him to see, even poorly, and that was all he really cared about.

   He peered tentatively around but nothing he could make out appeared to be all that interesting. Mostly, it seemed, the place was just full of stacks of mildewed paperwork standing in slumping towers amongst the usual accoutrements of an outdated office. He squinted at one of the piles of obsolete facts and figures nobody cared to remember but any ink that remained was faded, incomprehensible. Dean nudged a box with the toe of his sneaker and wrinkled his nose in distaste when the cardboard tore.

  “It’s gross in here,” he said, and wrapped his arms around himself, glancing at his friend to gauge his reaction but the ghost seemed distant. Distracted. Dean watched as he inclined his head in wordless agreement and began to move deeper into the room. Had he even actually heard him? Dean began to follow, slowly, and pulled a face when he had to step over a damp spot in the rotting carpet he’d rather not think about.

  “No, really Cas,” he said, “it’s nasty in here.”

  “I know,” said Cas, without turning back.

  “No, I mean it’s like-“

  “I  _know_ , Dean.”

  Something in his voice made Dean fall silent. There was an edge to it; not sharp, or particularly blunt, but it was definitely firm. It demanded Dean stop talking, so he did, and silently promised himself that he wouldn’t breathe too deeply. God knew what kind of germs were in this place. Bad ones he suspected. Bad ones his already deceased companion didn’t need to worry about.

  As he made his way around boxes and piles of junk Cas simply floated straight through, Dean became aware that his headache had returned. He couldn’t be sure whether it was from straining his eyes to see through the dark or from whatever inexplicable, ghostly shenanigans were obviously going on in this place, or if it was just a case of breathing in too much of that suspicious looking mildew on the wall over there. Hmm. Yeah, that stuff was definitely cause for concern.

  He opened his mouth to inform Cas for yet another time that this place was, to put it frankly, “ _super frickin’ gross_ ”, but before he could voice even the first syllable, the smell hit him like a sledgehammer to the nose.

  It was not a good smell.

  In fact, it was probably the worst goddamn thing he had ever had the intense displeasure of smelling.

  The smell was so utterly repugnant that he was actually knocked physically back a few steps and, unbeknownst to him, narrowly missed tripping over an overturned office chair. He clamped his hand over his nose and mouth but it was too late, the damage was done.

     Thick and cloying and heavy it hit the back of his throat and set about doing its hardest to try and choke him to death, and to its credit it put up a damn good fight. Though it didn’t quite kill him it did seem content enough to settle for making him gag.

  Which he did.

  A lot.

    He retched, bringing up nothing but foul-tasting bile that mingled with the dank, disgusting air and didn’t do much to help things. He needed to get out of there. He needed fresh air, and to get away from whatever it was that was producing these headaches, that _smell_. Something was very not right here. He had to get out, he had to leave, he had to-

   Wait. Wait, what was that?

   Was that… was that _Castiel_? Had he always shone that bright?

  Come to think of it, as long as he’d known him had Cas ever been quite so _vibrant_? The brilliant white of his shirt, the deep navy of his tie and the shimmering azure that rolled off of him like an aura… Didn’t he used to be more, well, _ghostly_?

  He stood there, Dean, bent in half with his hands on his knees and a trail of spittle and bile on his chin just staring at the beacon that was his friend. He still looked human, still wore his work shirt and pressed trousers, but there was something more to him; some weight, some solidity that hadn’t been there before. He looked real, as though if he reached out and touched him his hand would impact warm, living flesh instead of whatever frigid aether comprised Cas’ spirit. He almost tried to, though Cas stood several feet away. One of his hands rose, as if of its own accord, but he stopped it and pulled it back and used it to wipe the bile from his mouth instead. He spat to clear the taste from his mouth but there was nothing he could do about the smell. He was becoming used to it, almost, and very nearly forgot it was even bothering him his attention captivated so.

  He was just about to speak, to call out Cas’ name  or ask him what was happening, when Cas turned his head very slightly and the words died in his mouth. No, that was wrong. They didn’t just die, they were killed. Instead of words a strangled splutter came forth. It was enough for Cas to turn fully and the sudden concern on his face did nothing to mask the explosion of noiseless horror that was unfolding in Dean’s head.

  Where before there had been bleeding, now there was gushing. Where before a few smattered bruises and the occasional nicks and cuts, now there were deep scores splitting mottled, discoloured skin. Where before there had been two bright eyes, now one stared, cold and lifeless, and the other was nowhere to be seen in a deep pit of blackened and oozing gore.

  Where before there was his friend, harmless and safe and only slightly wounded, now there stood a maimed, bloody corpse with a chunk of his skull missing and a torrent of ichor raining down his ruined face and there was nothing Dean Winchester could do but scream.

  So he did.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I wrote some more. Not much, but some.
> 
> Nearly at the end now. Stick with it and I might even be finished by the New Year, haha, oh geez

   Screaming. Someone was screaming.

   The sound reverberated around the room and compounded, growing louder and more panicked with every passing second until Cas was certain the dusty old glass in the windows would shatter. He peered around for the source of the noise, suddenly certain that whoever was making it must be in terrible danger, and spotted Dean. Dean, backing away from him with immeasurable horror in a pair of eyes so wide Cas feared they would pop right out of his skull. He was shaking his head back and forth, never once tearing his gaze away from Castiel’s increasingly confused one as he backpeddled, further and further away, and Cas couldn’t understand why.

  The screaming only stopped when Dean, not looking where he was going, slammed his back into the wall next to the still-open door and forced all the air from his lungs in one breathy _oof_.

  Cas took a reflexive step forward. Why was Dean so terrified? Was it this place? Was it hurting him again, like it had been earlier? He raised a hand, reaching for his friend in what he hoped was a soothing gesture, but froze the moment it came into view. Something was wrong with it. The skin over his knuckles looked torn, ragged, and bloody, and one of his fingers was crooked, pointing out at an awkward angle as though it were broken.  He wracked his brain desperately, trying to remember. Had they been that way earlier? He didn’t think so.

   He drew both hands closer to his face and surveyed them, perplexed. Even his fingernails were messed up. Before they had been neat with rounded edges, but now… now they were chipped, torn, and on two fingers on his left hand they were missing altogether. The nails looked as though they’d been broken completely off, leaving nothing but soft, pink nailbed that oozed painful red.

    As he focused on them he became aware of a dull, constant throbbing. Not pain, per say, but the suggestion of it; the indistinct hint of a sensation that _could_ be pain if he focused on it and allowed it to flourish. It permeated his whole body, concentrating in several key areas where it seemed to throw down roots and dig in to become so much more real and noticeable. His hands seemed trivial compared to the sudden ache he felt in his ribs, in his throat. The back of his head. His _eye_.

   What was wrong with his eye? Why couldn’t he see out of it? He blinked, hoping to fix whatever was wrong but nothing seemed to happen. His vision seemed to have split, the left side dark, the right dull and misty. It was hard to see through, like peering through clouded glass, but he could still make out shapes. Make out Dean.

   Dean!

   He’d almost forgotten.

   He pushed through his distractions and found his friend, still pressed against the doorframe and still staring at him with thinly veiled horror. It clicked, then, that Dean was terrified of _him_. By the state of his fingers, he could only figure that the rest of him must be truly terrible.

   The ghost raised his ruined hands again, soothingly, and slowly, very slowly, some of the fear drained from Dean’s face. They stared at each other for a few seconds; man summoning composure, ghost willing himself to be as unthreatening as possible. It seemed to work. Dean cleared his throat, cocked his head ever so slightly – guardedly – and said:

  “…Cas?”

   The ghost nodded, flooded with relief, and smiled. He didn’t lower his hands out of fear that the moment of composure would be broken and his already terrified companion would be sent scrambling out the door.

  Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, never once breaking eye-contact, and pushed himself up.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, surveying the damage. He approached the ghost, wincing as he took in every horrible detail and telling himself that despite appearances, this was still his friend. This was still Cas. “Does it… I mean, can you…?” He cleared his throat. “Does it hurt?”

  Cas tilted his head very slightly, considering it.

   “Not really. It’s the same as before; as outside. I can sort of feel… _something_ … but it’s not pain per say,” he said. And then in a low voice, glancing once more at his ruined hands; “Is it that bad? Worse than before?”

   The look on Dean’s face answered his question, but still the painter tried.

   “Well, you know, it’s… It’s not…”

   “Ok so it’s definitely that bad,” he deadpanned, and smiled when Dean nodded wryly in agreement. “I’m sorry. It must be hard to look at me. No, it is,” he insisted, when Dean started to protest, “and I’m sorry. I’d never want to upset you.”

    “It’s not your fault, man,” Dean offered, weakly.

    “…No. But I wonder why…” He flexed his fingers and studied them for a moment before dropped his hands and turning away, suddenly lost in thought.

  Behind him, Dean took the opportunity to work on regaining his composure. Outside it had been a shock to see his friend go from pristine to bloodied; uninjured to looking like someone had kicked the crap out of him. But this time… This time it had been more than just shocking, it had been terrifying.

  Castiel couldn’t see it, but the damage that had appeared now… His fingers bent and broken, his eye gone and his skull caved in and gushing blood; there was no longer any doubt in his mind that Cas might have been alive somewhere. Not looking like this.  

  And it broke his heart.

  Cas claimed he couldn’t feel it, and Dean was inclined to believe him – there was no way Cas would be so calm if he was actually experiencing each of those injuries all of a sudden – but at one point, he would have. The Castiel that he had never known, the living Castiel, had been beaten and ripped apart, and something had smashed into his head, and his eye, and his ribs, and he must have been in agony, not to mention terrified. It was a small miracle then, he realised, that his Cas couldn’t remember all that, because walking around with that memory, that fear and anguish… Well. Suddenly the ghost woman’s pain seemed much more understandable.

   He glanced at his friend and let out a slow, steadying breath. It was hard to look at him – even harder than before – but now that he’d gotten past the initial shock he would get over it. For him.

  Dean moved to stand at Cas’ side. The ghost seemed to be lost in thought and startled when Dean waved a hand in front of his face. His good eye widened, and he turned to look at Dean, who in turn swallowed his rising gorge and pretended nothing was wrong.

  “Dean?”

  “You alright over here, man?” His voice was level now, calm, and he could see by the tightening around Cas’ bloodied mouth that the ghost knew it was faked, but neither man commented on it. Instead, Dean chose to plow on using that age-old adage: _fake it ‘til you make it_.

  “What’re you thinking about over here?”

   Cas studied him. Dean was smiling and trying to sound like his normal self, but Cas couldn’t help but note that he wasn’t making eye-contact. Dean seemed to be staring just past him, or allowing his eyes to flicker to other parts of the mouldy old office. He didn’t mind; judging by Dean’s reaction, he must look no better than the ghost woman with the ruined face, and Dean had already proven himself squeamish. Honestly, he was just thrilled that the artist was making an effort, on his behalf, to make him feel normal. He latched on to the metaphorically proffered hand, and answered.

  “Why I look like this all of a sudden,” he said. “Or, this bad at least.”

  “Are you still thinking _hotter-colder_ rules? Do you think this mean we’re practically on goddamn fire?”

   Cas nodded and crossed his arms.

   “I think,” he said, his voice almost a murmur, “I died here.”

   Dean allowed the words to process.

   “Then… that smell…”

   Cas nodded again and Dean tried not to throw up for a second time.

   “Oh God….” He pressed his hand to his mouth and took a small step backwards, eyes straining to scour the room through the darkness and the decay. “So where…?”

   Cas didn’t answer. Not with words.

   Silently, and without looking away from Dean, he rose a softly glowing arm and pointed towards the far end of the room. Dean followed the pointing finger and peered into the darkness.

   It was dark down there, horribly so. Shapes swam out of the gloom that Dean hadn’t noticed before; overturned filing cabinets propped up against each other, old monitors that were cracked and chunky and beige, and what seemed, strangely, to be a pile of old carpets. Glancing down Dean noticed for the first time that the floor was bare. At some point somebody must have ripped up the carpeting and abandoned it to rot with the rest. He squinted and, with a jolt, realised he could make out something else – something underneath all the crap and the carpet. Something dark, and thin, and shaped suspiciously like…

   A shoe.

   It was a shoe.

   They’d found Cas.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahah, hoo boy. Geez. How long has it been? Faaaaaar too long. But then, this is sort of terrible, and I really just want it over now. I debated with myself for the past few months or so whether I even wanted to finish this, but it started as a writing exercise for me, and the whole point was to see something through to the end. So I'm going to. Even if it's shit. So that the next thing I work on I can actually spend time and effort on. :S

   “Oh fuck.”

   Cas had to hand it to him, that seemed to sum pretty much everything up.

   “Yeah,” he said.

   “ _Fuck_.”

   “I got that, Dean.”

   “How are you not more freaked out about this!? That’s your… your…”

   “My body.”

   “Your _body_! Oh, Christ, and it’s over there decomposing. That’s disgusting.”

    Cas narrowed his remaining eye and wrinkled his nose.

    “Yeah. Thanks for that, Dean.”

    “Oh… Ah, sorr- _Why are you going over there_?”

    Cas paused and looked back over his shoulder. He shrugged and twisted his shredded lips into a dry smile.

   “I have to,” he said, quietly. “This is what we came for.”

   “Like hell it is!” Dean linked his fingers behind his head, eyes widening in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d actually _find_ anything. Definitely not your rotting _body,_ Cas, we are in way over our heads here!”

  The ghost nodded.

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t go over there! We could, I don’t know, contaminate the evidence!”

   Cas couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing.

   “The _evidence_?”

   “Sure! You don’t honestly think living you came all the way out here to just crawl under a pile of junk and die, do you? Cas, come on, this is obviously a crime scene. I’m sorry but it’s pretty obvious that something happened here. Something… murder-y.” He massaged his temples. “We shouldn’t be here, Cas – _I_ shouldn’t be here.”

  Cas seemed to consider this.

  “What else am I supposed to do?” he finally said, quietly. “I have to do this – I have to  _see_  this – but you don’t have to stay. This is…” He tried to find the right word, eventually shrugging one shoulder and sighing. “This is difficult.”

  Dean nodded in agreement.

  “You’re telling me,” he muttered, flicking his eyes to the door and back. Cas was certain he would take the opportunity to leave, but he didn’t, and Cas didn’t know quite what to make of that. The situation clearly, undisputedly bothered Dean, but he stayed anyway.

   He stayed for Cas.

   A glimmer of something warm reignited in his dead chest and it was a familiar feeling, that heat that softened his eyes and widened the smile on his lips, but he stopped it there and allowed it to grow no further, no matter how desperately he wanted it to.

    He couldn’t.

    He knew he couldn’t.

    He dropped his eyes and turned away, returning his attention at last to where his body lay.

    One step at a time Cas advanced slowly, making sure to walk rather than drift. Not once did he allow his eyes to drift from his corpse at the end of the room, even as he sidestepped overturned boxes and traversed around fallen, cracked monitors that littered the floor to block his way. He couldn’t see much; most of it was obscured by the junk that seemed to have been piled hastily on top of him, but as he got closer he began to see more. A section of hitched trouser-leg revealed red and yellow striped socks sticking out from his shoes. A shoelace torn from its eyelets to add to the junk surrounding him. A hand sticking out from a section of carpet and the sight of it was awful; blackened nails where they remained, rotting skin that split in places innumerable to show the putrefying flesh below, and, in one stomach-churning spot, he even thought he could see bone. It was a strange feeling, seeing his hand on the floor, and then lifting its ghostly twin and watching as the flesh fell away and the nails blackened and bled to match it.

   For the first time, Cas was relieved not to have a sense of smell. Looking at that hand he imagined it to be revolting, and immediately pitied Dean his working nose. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the artist watching, still seemingly conflicted over whether he should join the ghost or hang back. He fidgeted and took small steps, only to fall back and rub nervously at the back of his neck, then advance again only to repeat the whole process.

   But Dean couldn’t bring himself to follow. He _couldn’t_. That was the body of his friend down there – his broken, messy corpse – and Dean couldn’t bring himself to see Cas like that. Looking at the ghost as he appeared now was hard enough, with his spectral wounds and ectoplasmic blood, but seeing his body, rotting and forgotten and at one point so full of terror and agony, was more than he could handle. So, he stayed where he was; lingering by the doorway and watching as his friend approached his own decomposing remains.

   Cas was closer now; so close that if he wanted he could reach out and touch his own dead hand. But the actual thought of it – of stretching out and making contact with that abandoned, decaying thing - was abhorrent. It set off screeching warning alarms in his head, no doubt the result of his mind recognising the inherent wrongness of seeing his own body lying dead before him, and it took a surprising amount of effort to ignore and suppress them.

   This was something he had to do. He wasn’t sure why, wasn’t even sure he wanted to, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he absolutely had to.

   He stopped just shy of his body and gazed down at it, unsure of what to do next. Should he try and remove all that junk? Reveal himself? The thought held some measure of morbid fascination, but it was immediately overridden by a sick lurch in his stomach.

    He couldn’t do it; couldn’t bring himself to look at his own gruesome face.

    Instead, he lowered himself slowly to his haunches and brushed aside the littering of papers and wires that lay atop him as he pondered the situation, leaving just the wrapping of carpet as an impromptu shroud of sorts. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much else to be done.

   It was an odd feeling, knowing that beneath that covering lay what used to be him. Odd, in that he felt so disconnected. He recognised the shoes, as they adorned his own feet, and the trousers for the same reason. The socks were a surprise; he had never thought to check them – why would he? - but, otherwise, everything that he could see all looked the same.

    And yet it felt like a stranger lay before him. There were no flashes or revelations. No memories suddenly flooding his mind, no snippets from the old life he barely remembered, where the man who shared his face drank with his sister and never expected to end up broken and forgotten at the back of some musty old warehouse. It saddened him, but in a distant way; the sort of sad you feel for tragedies on the news, or horrors shared on the internet. Distant, impersonal; something entirely separate from himself.

   The thought left him at something of an impasse. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting – perhaps some answers or closure of some kind – but this hadn’t given him it. It hadn’t given him anything. He felt just as adrift, just as confused as before, except now he was kneeling in front of a corpse with no idea of what to do next and honestly, despite all they had gone through to get here, he just wanted to go home.

   He sighed softly. With one hand, he rubbed at his eyes, thinking that if he had been alive he figured they would be stinging right about now with tears, though whether they would be tears of sadness or frustration he wasn’t sure. He lay the other on top of the carpet, roughly where he thought Castiel Novak’s heart would be and bowed his head.

   For a moment, nothing happened. And then everything did.

   The world fell away, crumbling from beneath him and around him until he floated in nothingness and all he could make out was his own body in front of him, with his hand still resting on top of it. He pulled his hand back and it seemed to move in slow motion, leaving a luminous after-image as he dragged it through the void. It was strange, but not the strangest thing he had ever seen.

    That honour belonged to what happened next.

    From somewhere in the darkness, a sound rang out. Muffled and far away at first, it repeated louder and grew in clarity, until it was unmistakably a word. A name.

     “ _Cas_.”

     His name. Someone was calling his name.

     Cas swiveled his head just in time to see the outline of a man materialise beside him, its edges fuzzy and crackling like static on an untuned television that gradually solidified into firm lines. Once the lines completed, the rest of the silhouette began to fill in with colour; starting with the washed-out jeans and climbing until two hazel eyes stared out of a freckled face, and sandy hair somehow ruffled despite the absence of wind. Dean’s hand hovered just above Cas’ shoulder, but didn’t quite touch.

   It was strange. Dean seemed frozen, and Cas didn’t know whether he should reach for him or just let whatever was happening happen.

   Moments ticked by agonisingly slowly until Cas couldn’t take it any longer. He rose to his full height – just shorter than Dean – and without pausing to think reached out with both hands and gently cupped the artist’s face.

   The contact felt like electricity. He yanked his hands back and watched with disbelief as a spark leapt from his fingers and sank into Dean’s chest. He had no idea what was happening, but whatever it was seemed to be working. The moment the spark vanished into Dean his chest expanded and he took a breath, blinking suddenly and focusing on Cas with a strange look of relief on his face as he recognised the ghost.

  “Cas!” he said, grinning widely. “Oh, thank God, man. You worried me there.”

   That was a strange thing to say. Cas cocked his head uncertainly.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Oh, it was weird, dude, you froze all of a sudden and went all statue-y on me. I tried calling your name but it was like you couldn’t hear me or something? Anyway–”

   As he spoke, Cas noticed that Dean sounded odd; sort of faraway, and faded, nothing at all like his usual self. He could still hear him, and understand him, but there was a strange lack of clarity – of crispness – to Dean’s words. It almost sounded like maybe Dean was stood across the room talking to him, or speaking through a door. Either way, Dean himself didn’t seem to notice anything amiss as he continued to chatter. Cas decided to just chalk it all up to limbo-weirdness, and let it go.

  “– and so, I came over and put my hand on your shoulder, and… then…”

    His gaze shifted beyond the ghost he had been focusing on and his eyes widened in surprise as he finally noticed the nothingness surrounding them.

   “What the…?” His faraway voice trailed off. After turning a few times and seeing nothing but darkness in every direction, Dean snapped back to Cas and gestured questioningly. “ _What the_??” he repeated, and the ghost lifted one side of his mouth in amusement.

   “I have no idea,” he said, crossing his arms and glancing around. “But this is sort of like when I saw myself with Anna leaving that bar. The only difference, I suppose, is _that,_ ” and he jerked a thumb at something behind him. Dean followed his thumb and pulled a face when he noticed the carpet-wrapped corpse still on the floor – the only thing besides them in their featureless void.

   “Oh man," he muttered.

   “Last time was like watching through a window,” Cas continued, “but this is a little more… interactive.”

    Dean visibly paled.

   “Tell me we don’t have to…” he said, covering his mouth as though he were about to be sick.

    All Cas could do was shrug, and sigh.

   “I have no idea. I’m honestly just hoping that-”

    Behind him, something soft _thumped_.


End file.
